


Zephyr: A Thousand Ways To Be

by Fragged



Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, M/M, Pre-Slash, and everything in between
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 15:11:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 73
Words: 68,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4353827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fragged/pseuds/Fragged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Young/Rush drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Come over here and make me."

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of stand-alone Young/Rush drabbles. They're inspired by [this list of prompts](http://so-fragged.tumblr.com/post/124055003905/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you) I saw floating around on Tumblr. 
> 
> **Disclaimer** : Some of these will be pretty stupid. Also, I might reuse some of these ideas in 'full-size' fics in the future.

“Rush,” Young says from behind him, and Rush feels his shoulders tense instinctively. “What the hell are you doing still up? It's three in the morning.” 

Rush refuses to take his eyes off the console and takes his time entering a few unnecessary commands that at least give the impression of being preoccupied with something more important than Young's gravelly voice and his heavy presence at Rush's back. 

“Yes, well, Colonel, some of us actually have important things to do,” he answers snidely, when it becomes clear that Young is intent on waiting him out. 

“You've been awake for at least forty-eight hours, and we just barely made it through that attack tonight. You do realize you're no use to anyone when you pass out from exhaustion, right?” 

God, Young sounds _reasonable_ , and Rush feels a muscle twitch in his cheek at how annoying it is to be talked to like he's a child. 

That isn't to say that he isn't, in fact, exhausted. He'd been planning to go to his quarters in twenty minutes or so, when the final shield diagnostics finish. But damn it if he is going to let Young set his bloody bedtime for him. 

“Go to bed, Rush.” 

Rush turns around and puts the console at his back as he crosses his arms to send Young a challenging stare. He thinks about saying no. He thinks about chewing Young out for being such an irritating bastard. He must be really fucking tired, because what comes out instead is, “Come over here and make me.” 

It is a mistake, he knows it as soon as the words leave his mouth, because instead of Young's brow furrowing in annoyance like he was expecting, Young's lips curl into a calculating smile. He takes a step closer, and shit, Rush's heartbeat is suddenly high up in his throat at the Colonel's proximity. 

“You like that I can just throw you over my shoulder and carry you off to bed, huh?” Young rumbles, and Rush has to exert an enormous amount of effort not to let anything show on his face. Young's grin tells him he might not have been as successful as he'd hoped. 

“How much longer do you need?” Young asks after a little while, humor falling away and voice softening a little. Rush doesn't flinch when Young reaches for his hand and circles his fingers around his wrist loosely. 

“Fifteen minutes or so,” he answers, feeling oddly defeated. 

“I can stay,” Young says quietly, casting a quick glance over his shoulder before nuzzling his nose against the underside of Rush's jaw and breathing in deeply. 

“Yeah,” Rush says, suddenly feeling the weight of all that lack of sleep on his shoulders, in his arms, clinging to his eyelashes. “Yeah, alright.”


	2. “Have you lost your damn mind?!”

“We haven't discussed the most obvious option. The chair.” 

“Have you lost your damn _mind_?! You want someone to sit in that goddamn chair of yours and sacrifice their life? Over this?!” 

Rush feels his skin prickle at that heated flash of... of _something_ in Young's eyes. Rush still hasn't figured out exactly what that look means, even after all this time stuck with the man on this ship. It's most likely rage, but there's more. It's as if it's loaded with not just anger, but with betrayal, and fear, and worry, as well. It makes something crawl scratchily along the inner linings of Rush's stomach. 

“There's a larger than sixty percent chance that whoever sits in the chair will be fine,” he answers, hearing the rising volume in his voice and reminding himself to stay calm. Stay collected. Don't let Young's idiocy and his risk-averse nonsense get to you. 

“Oh, _great_ , so there's only a one-in-three chance you'll fry someone's brain this time.” 

“It's either chance one person or risk losing the entire ship and everyone on it, _Colonel_ , so why don't you take your head out of the sand and fucking act like a leader, for once.” 

For a quick second, Rush is certain Young is going to punch him. His heart-rate rockets up in something that is half fear and half something else. Some sick sense of anticipation. Some dirty, twisted need inside him that wants to be hurt, that wants Young's hands on him in a way that is nothing but punishing, rough, painful... 

Young doesn't, though. He merely balls his hands into fists and lets out a hard breath. Typical. 

“We have time,” Young grits out eventually. “We have twenty hours to come up with something else. Something better. If you still haven't found anything by then, I'll sit in the damn thing myself.” 

Of course. Rush nearly rolls his eyes at the predictability of it all. Of course Young will play the sacrificial lamb again. That's all the man seems to think he's good for. Of course he'd suggest this. Offering himself up to die and stalling for time, two of Young's favorite pastimes rolled neatly into one. Goddamn that man. 

A less welcome thought creeps into his mind a second later. Perhaps Young thinks that this will motivate Rush to work harder, to look deeper. It would be highly presumptuous, and fucking _wrong_ , thank you very much – because Rush _always_ does his very best. He doesn't need Young to dangle himself in front of him like some sort of fucked up carrot. Or stick. He's not even sure which of the two it's supposed to be. 

“Figure it out, Rush,” Young says brusquely, before turning on his heel and stomping out of the room. Rush feels his fingers twitch with the sudden urge to tangle his hand into Young's hair, to pull him back and slam him against a wall and fucking bite the shit out of him. 

He doesn't. He swallows down a thick shudder instead, watches Young disappear down the corridor, and turns back to his science team. They're looking at him with varying degrees of shock and dismay and disapproval, and fuck them anyway. 

“You heard the Colonel,” he says, infusing his voice with as much sarcasm as he can muster. “Back to work.”


	3. "Please, don't leave."

“Sir,” TJ says, as soon as he enters the infirmary. “Thanks for coming so quickly.” 

Young gives her a wan smile and pretends he doesn't feel like he's about to keel over from exhaustion. It's something he's gotten quite a lot of practice at since coming to the ship. “Of course.” 

He knows she's overworked. He knows the infirmary is too crowded – some alien virus has nearly a quarter of all the crew laid up and in pain, and the beds are pushed so close together she can barely squeeze herself between them. 

“I'm sorry, I really am, but Rush doesn't need to be here and I don't have any hands to spare to take him to his quarters.” 

Young searches the infirmary until he finds Rush, sat on the edge of his bed with a confused and hazy expression. He seems to be swaying a little bit, and it's clear he won't make it to his room on his own strength. 

“He still has a lot of Woozy Tea in his system,” TJ says, by way of explanation. 

“Woozy Tea?” he hears himself ask, but he knows the answer before she even rolls her eyes.

“Eli named it.” 

Right. Of course. 

The way to Rush's quarters is long. Not because it's very far away from the infirmary, but because Rush insists on stopping every few steps. He oscillates between cursing at Young for no discernible reason whatsoever, and squeezing his hands too tightly into the muscle of Young's arms, his back, wherever he can grasp. Young lets him do what he wants without too much protest. Rush is heavily drugged and he still has a huge hole in his stomach from where he was shot by that alien, and everyone on the ship seems to be at risk for this mystery illness TJ is dealing with. He honestly has other things to worry about than Rush being a handsy jerk right now. 

When he finally has Rush in bed, shoes off and belt and vest stripped and folded on his nightstand, he gives the man a long look. Rush has rolled onto his side, one arm shoved under his pillow and the other wrapped gingerly around his wounded stomach. He looks vulnerable, and small, and altogether fragile. It makes something tug at Young's heartstrings a bit, and how messed up is that? He'd been willing to kill Rush at one point. He'd been willing to leave him behind on that dusty planet because he couldn't see another way of dealing with the man, and now he is standing over his bed like a goddamn fond idiot. Funny how time and proximity managed to mold hate and fear into something completely different. 

Young turns around, intending to leave quietly, when Rush's voice sounds suddenly through the stillness of the room. 

“Please, don't leave,” he mumbles, and Young isn't even sure whether he's still awake, but there's something so lonely and lost in Rush's voice that he can't help but listen. “Don't leave.” 

Young feels that same surge of achy affection wash through him. He sighs. Rush is probably going to get angry at him for this tomorrow. It doesn't matter. He drags a chair closer to the bed. 

“Okay, Rush,” he says softly, plopping down in the chair and brushing a few stray hairs away from Rush's face. “I'm not going anywhere.”


	4. "Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?"

“Fuck,” Rush grunts, and Young has no choice but to watch the tendons in his throat strain as Rush folds his arms behind his head and stretches to get some of the kinks out of his shoulders. 

God, he knows what Rush means. His own neck is a goddamn mess of tension, and it's not as if the constant threat of starvation and the hostile alien ships that keep popping up every time they drop out of FTL are doing anything to help it. 

“I'd give half my liver for a good back rub right about now,” Rush grouses, before settling in behind his console again and returning to his work. 

Young suddenly feels tongue-tied and fluttery, but, well. That's probably as much of an opening as Rush will ever give him, isn't it? 

“Do you... well... I mean... I could give you a massage?” he says, trying to sound casual and probably failing miserably. 

And shit, maybe he misread Rush's comment completely, because the man is slowly turning around in his seat now, and he's giving Young the strangest look. Something in Young's face must be funny to him, though, because his lips quirk up in amusement. 

“And what would you do with half of my liver, then?” 

Young feels his brow furrow, because this is probably the weirdest way of flirting he's ever partaken in. But it _is_ flirting, he's pretty sure of that. 

“Should I be flattered that you're assuming I give good back rubs?” 

Rush sends him an exasperated look and then surprises him by getting up from his console and perching himself on Young's knees. Which is a less compromising way of saying that Rush is _sitting in his lap_. This is all very surreal. He has trouble processing what is happening until Rush shrugs out of his vest and looks at Young over his shoulder. 

“So? Are you gonna get to it, or what?” 

Young feels something nervous and giddy skitter through his chest, and places his hands on top of Rush's shoulders. Before long he is squeezing and rubbing and working out knots with the practiced proficiency of someone who has spent years married to a woman who tended to carry all her stress in her neck and shoulders. He hadn't ever expected that skill to come in handy in quite this particular way, but he's not knocking it. Rush squirms a little in his lap and lets out a sound that is downright _filthy_ , and Young feels his cheeks heat up a bit. He keeps going. 

“Yeah. _Fuck_ , don't stop,” Rush groans. Young feels a satisfied smile curve up his lips as his hands map out the muscle and the bone and the tension that make up Rush's back. Rush feels good underneath his hands - warm, and unexpectedly sturdy, and _real_. He doesn't stop working out the kinks in Rush's back until the man all but drapes himself over the console to the left of them with a contented little sigh.

“Christ, that was good.” 

“Well,” Young says, letting his fingers trail across the skin of Rush's neck near the inner hem of his t-shirt. “I'm sure Becker can whip up something good with your liver. Or, you know... You could just return the favor.”


	5. "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?"

Young barely blanches when he finds Rush in his quarters. By now it's a regular enough occurrence that it doesn't exactly surprise him anymore when it happens, although that happy thrill of _something_ still echoes through his chest at the sight of Rush lounging on his couch with his laptop. 

“He's gone,” he says. “Went back to Earth twenty minutes ago.” 

“Finally,” Rush says, something dark and unhappy in his voice. “That man likes to overstay his welcome more than anyone I've ever known.” 

“He's just doing his job, Rush,” Young says, feeling like he has to placate the man even though there shouldn't be any reason to. Telford can be a handful, sure, but his heart is in the right place. He wants to get everyone home and that is something Young can identify with, even if lately it seems more and more likely that their presence here is ordained by destiny. Them being aboard this ship doesn't feel like a martyr's fate anymore, it feels like purpose. Like finally getting to fulfill what they were meant to do with their lives in the first place. 

Rush snorts and shakes his head as he puts the laptop aside. “He's a fucking nuisance, and you know it.” 

That is true, too, and Young feels his lips quirk up at Rush's almost childish dislike of the man. 

“You'd like him if you got to know him.” 

“Like you do?” Rush says, giving him a sarcastic look. “I sincerely doubt that.” 

And Young realizes that this isn't just about Telford trying to shut down Rush's efforts of reinstating the hydroponics dome at all. This is Rush being... what? Being annoyed by Young's fondness towards Telford? 

“He's a good man,” he says. Because Telford is, even if his methods can sometimes be a bit abrasive. 

“It's clear you think so,” Rush retorts, and then he's up off the couch, grabbing Young's face and kissing him so hard everything stops moving for a moment. 

“Wait a minute,” Young pants, breaking away from Rush's forceful hands and his insistent mouth. “Are you _jealous_?” 

Rush gives him a look so scorching that Young almost feels like blushing. If he didn't know that's what Rush does when confronted with his own insecurities. If he didn't know that tic near the corner of Rush's mouth. But he does – he knows Rush well enough for that, by now – and God, that makes something coil up tight in his stomach. 

“You _are_ ,” he says, feeling his mouth curl up into a smirk. 

“You're a fucking idiot,” Rush growls, but then he's pushing forward again, driving Young back against the wall as his tongue plunders Young's mouth, takes everything he wants from Young without even asking for permission. 

It's good, sometimes, when Rush is like this. It's nice to feel so wanted, to know that the aggression and the forcefulness are meant to convey that Rush really wants him. Really needs Young to be here with him. 

“You'd better not get any ideas,” Rush says, biting at Young's bottom lip harshly. 

Young just laughs and pulls Rush closer to the bed. He's pretty sure that the only ideas he has right now, Rush won't object against.


	6. "Is there a reason why you are naked in my bed?"

Rush groans. The harsh lights in his room already feel too intrusive, even with his eyes closed. Fuck, he must have a hangover of some kind, either from Brody's rotgut or from Lieutenant Johansen's damn anesthetic tea, but he can't remember anything right now. His head hurts with a throbbing ache that synchronizes rhythmically with his heartbeat. 

God, he feels like utter shit. 

“Rush?” Young's rough voice sounds from next to him – he'd recognize that growly rumble anywhere – and Jesus, that certainly wakes him up faster than anything he could've imagined. 

He opens his eyes marginally, propping his hand up against his forehead to diminish at least some of the lights' glaring brightness, and sees Young in bed next to him. He's not wearing any clothes. 

“Is there a reason why you are naked in my bed?” he asks, and he congratulates himself on sounding almost humanoid, despite the gargling hitch in the back of his throat. 

Young looks... he looks like he has just as much of a hangover as Rush does. He also looks really fucking good, actually. Sleepy and naked and broad, and yeah, Rush knows why he doesn't allow his mind to wander to this dark corner very often, because none of that is even remotely acceptable. 

“Jesus, why are the lights so bright?” Young groans, and Rush can't help but agree with him, despite the fact that the lights in his quarters are generally barely bright enough to read by. 

Everything pretty much stops when Young reaches over and wraps his arm around Rush's stomach. What. The. Fuck? 

“Hng,” Young says, nuzzling deeply into the skin of Rush's throat. It tickles and it's warm and it's not in any way okay. “'S nice, waking up with someone.” 

Rush has no idea why he doesn't flinch away, and he hates himself a little bit for feeling a sliver of pride surge through his chest at Young's words. Because Young is clearly feeling just as wretched as he is, himself, and apparently he still prefers waking up like this over waking up alone. 

This is so many kinds of fucked up. 

It's also frustratingly nice. Young's warmth seeps into his side, and he wants to feel more of Young's skin. Under his fingertips, against his chest, between the sensitive skin of his thighs... Shit, yeah, he really wants to feel more. 

It's disgusting, really, how easy it is to make his choice. He curls his arm around Young's back and pushes his leg in between Young's thighs before tucking his head into the crook of Young's neck. 

Yes. 

Warm. Soft. Nice. 

He registers Young's flaccid cock brushing against him, and it doesn't even feel that weird. It feels... it feels kind of nice, alright? 

Rush isn't sure how much further he is willing to take this. The itchy dried come on his stomach makes it rather clear they'd probably taken it beyond naked snuggling last night, but he can't remember so it doesn't count. 

No, he's not sure how much further he's willing to take this. But for now... For now, this is really fucking nice.


	7. "I almost lost you."

“Jesus Christ, Rush,” Young groans, rubbing his jaw with an angry look in his eyes. “What the fuck?” 

Rush ignores it, ignores the way his knuckles are burning with the impact with Young's face, ignores the red bruise blossoming up on Young's jaw already. Instead, he grips Young's hair painfully tight and pulls him in close enough that their foreheads are touching. 

Yes. Young is here. Young is alive. 

He didn't lose yet another person in the short list of people he loves. 

“Rush,” Young says, and he sounds a bit milder now. “You okay?” 

Rush heaves in a shuddery breath, and feels his way back to reality by the grounding brush of Young's hair between his fingers. “I almost lost you.” 

“Rush,” Young says again, and finally he's bringing up his own hands to card through Rush's hair, too. “I'm okay. We're all okay.” 

“Shut up,” Rush growls, and pulls Young forward for a biting kiss. He loves Young's lips, Young's tongue, the way all of Young just _gives_ when he pushes like this. He loves asserting that Young is his. He loves... Fuck, he loves _Young_. 

“Don't ever do that again,” he breathes, when he can finally stomach to pull away from Young enough to speak. 

“Rush,” Young says, voice croaky and just as out of breath as Rush's. “It's okay. I'm not gonna die that easily.” 

“You'd better not,” Rush affirms, and then he's kissing Young again. Less aggressive now, although his fingers still fist in Young's hair in a way that must hurt. He's not letting Young go. Not right now. Not without a fight. 

The awkward cough behind him kind of puts a damper on things, though. 

“We're about to dial back, sir,” Greer says, and Rush isn't sure whether the way the Sergeant turns his eyes away means that he's silently laughing at him, or that he's trying to preserve at least a modicum of their dignity. 

Fuck it. It doesn't matter anyway. People were bound to find out sooner or later. 

“Alright,” Young says. He actually sounds like nothing just happened. Like everything _is_ alright. It infuriates Rush as much as it settles something that he hadn't realized was skittering up and down his spine since Greer spoke. “Let's go home.” 

Rush feels a bit sheepish now. He lets his hands drop from Young's head, and takes a step to the side. Young is fine. They're all fine. There's no need for these melodramatics. 

He's still inordinately grateful when Young curls his fingers around his hand and squeezes tightly. 

They're fine. Everything will be fine.


	8. "Wanna bet?"

“That was a freak shot. There's no goddamn way you can do that again,” Young had said. 

And Rush, like a stupid fucking idiot, had said, “Wanna bet?” 

And the thing is, Rush had won. He'd managed to redo the shot that was so close to physically impossible that he felt ridiculously impressed with himself, and he'd _won_. 

And now he is kicking himself for it, because this, having Young do his bidding for an entire day, is fucking excruciating.

“You'll do anything I say?” Rush had asked, disbelief clear in his voice. 

“Within reason,” Young had answered. “I'm not going to step down as commanding officer or outlaw Volker, or whatever crazy shit you might have in mind.” 

“Hm,” Rush had mused offhandedly, like the thought of Young being forced to do anything he said didn't conjure up a thousand terrible, conflicting fantasies. “Alright, Colonel. I'll take that bet.”

And he'd fucking won. What the hell had he been thinking? Maybe even losing the bet would have been preferable to this. 

He'd managed to bluff his way through most of the day by having Young replace burnt out conduits and power relays. Simple stuff. Stuff that would get Young dirty, but not in a way anyone might object against. 

Now, though... Now they are alone in his quarters, and Young is sending him a look that is either pissed off or amused at Rush's expense, he's not sure. Both options are less than optimal, and damn it – _he_ should be the one feeling in control here, not Young. 

“Well, I guess you can bring me some food,” Rush says. Young gives him an unimpressed look. 

“I don't know whether I should be relieved or disappointed by your lack of imagination, Rush.” 

Rush narrows his eyes at him and shoos him out. _How about you suck my cock then, Colonel?_

He's not going to say that, though. He's not. No matter how much the thought of Young opening his mouth for him makes him twitch with lust. No matter how hard he gets at the idea of Young being reluctant to take him in, and ending up moaning with how much he wants it in the end. 

He spends the entire fifteen minutes that Young is fetching him his night's ration of protein-slush-with-alien-vegetables thinking about how much he's not going to say any of that. 

“You didn't get any for yourself?” he asks, when he takes in the single bowl Young brought back with him. 

Young cocks his head at him, almost imploringly, and eventually says, “You didn't tell me to.” 

Oh. That does something interesting to his insides. 

“On your knees,” he orders with a sudden burst of boldness. His heart is in his throat as he watches Young quirk his eyebrow at him, and then it feels like it plummets to his stomach when Young sinks to the floor in between Rush's thighs. 

“Open up,” Rush says, and he feels his cock thicken at the way Young obeys him. At the way Young opens his mouth. 

He takes a bit of vegetable onto his fork and feeds it to Young. Young takes it, chewing in a way that seems almost contented, and Rush wonders if this is something Young has fantasized about just as much as he has. 

“Good,” he says, rubbing his fingers underneath Young's throat as he feels the man swallow. It is nice, having Young between his legs like this. 

Perhaps he ought to try feeding him more than just vegetables.


	9. "Don't you ever do that again!"

Rush feels irritated and prickly when he presses his hand against the door control to Young's quarters and steps inside. He did good, today. He took a risk and he nearly paid for it with his life, but he got the systems back online. Instead of giving him that small, conspiratorial smile, though, or even a barely noticeable nod that could easily be translated into 'Good job, Rush', Young had been snippy and withdrawn all afternoon. And they were stuck on the bridge for the rest of the day, so it wasn't like he could go up to Young and ask him what the hell crawled up his arse, either. 

“Rush,” Young says coolly, when Rush closes the door behind him. 

“What is your problem, Colonel?” 

Apparently that wasn't the right thing to say, because Young goes from cold to blazingly hot in a second. 

“What is _my_ problem?!” Young says, standing up from behind his desk and clanging his glasses down on it with too much force. “What the fuck is _your_ problem? How can you be so goddamn stupid, Rush?” 

Rush bristles, but before he even has time to work out how he's going to react to this sudden attack, Young is in his face, grabbing his shoulders and giving him a rough shake. 

“Don't you _ever_ do that again!” 

And, oh. This is worry. It eases the indignant flare of anger in Rush's chest, and instead of shouting back he simply puts his hand on top of Young's on his shoulder. Young turns his face away and closes his eyes like he's in pain, and Rush's heart clenches with the idea that he really does mean quite a lot to the man. More than he'd thought, in any case. 

“I'm alright, Colonel,” he says quietly, using his free hand to turn Young's face back to him. 

“I know, I just...” Young says, eyes searching desperately over Rush's face. Rush thinks Young is trying to say something else. Maybe something sweet and painful, like 'I can't stand the thought of losing you.' Or maybe a heartfelt plea of some sort. Or maybe even... 

Young doesn't like talking about his feelings and Rush shares the sentiment, so they generally prefer to show their affection through touch and sex and the occasional small gesture. Words... words are more difficult. More prone to misinterpretation. More prone to being twisted back on themselves, to turn into lies, to lead to heartache. 

So Young doesn't say anything, and Rush doesn't feel inclined to make him speak. Instead, he draws Young closer for a soft kiss. A brush of lips that is gentler than what they're used to, until Rush pushes forward and drags it wetter and hotter and even harder to resist. 

Young moans into his mouth, and then they stumble over to the bed until he's moaning into his pillow, and Rush works both of them to climax with a frenzied need that never quite seems to go away. 

When they're lying side by side, sharing a pillow and the rhythm of their breath, Young turns toward him and strokes his fingers through Rush's beard. 

“You're very important to me,” he says, and the way his brow is furrowed, the way his voice cracks along the edges, the way he looks almost frightened by his own words... Rush knows it means 'I love you.' 

“The feeling is mutual, Colonel,” he answers quietly. “Now go to sleep. We've got a long day tomorrow.”


	10. "Teach me how to play?"

“You said you enjoyed chess!” Rush bursts out indignantly. 

“I mean, I assume I would. It looks fun,” Young says, shrugging a little. “Come on, Rush, you've got everything all set up already. Teach me how to play?” 

Rush huffs in annoyance. This is more than he bargained for. He finally caved and agreed to a game of chess with the Colonel, and then it turns out the man doesn't even know how to _play_ chess. What a goddamn idiot. 

“Fine,” he snaps. “But I'm only going to explain things once.” 

Young nods, and hums, and gives him a look that is either amused or simply happy, and Rush speeds through the explanation of the game a bit quicker than might be entirely fair. 

“Okay, I think I've got it,” Young says. “You wanna start?” 

Rush takes white, and doesn't hold back. Young wanted to play him? Then he's going to play him, and not some watered down, holding-back-for-the-sake-of-the-beginner's-feelings version of himself. 

Young is... he's pretty good, though. He sometimes takes a little long to think over his next move, but the moves themselves actually don't seem nearly as disjointed or short-sighted as he expected from... he's not sure. From a beginner? From Young? 

As the game goes on, Rush is starting to feel something nervous tickle at the back of his throat. Young is more than pretty good. Young actually stands a chance of winning. Fuck, he will never live that down. 

He redoubles his efforts and forces himself to keep his attention solely on the game. For a short while, it looks like he has the upper hand, but then everything breaks to pieces as he finally realizes Young's strategy – the few moves that had seemed somewhat incongruent before now falling into place and making perfect sense, and _fuck_ , Young will have him in four moves. 

Fuck. 

When he looks up into Young's eyes, he can tell the man knows it, too. Young is quietly laughing at him, he's pretty certain, but it's not... it's not as grating as he'd expected it to be. 

“It seems I underestimated you,” Rush says, toppling over his king. 

Young laughs, out loud this time, and starts rearranging the pieces. “Well, I didn't play entirely fair.” 

Rush narrows his eyes. Of course. Jesus, when had he become so goddamn naïve? 

“You obviously didn't need me to explain the game to you,” he says. 

Young gives him a rueful look. “President of the Chess Club in college,” he says with the tiniest smile. “Won State finals twice in a row.” 

Rush feels his own lips quirk up in response, because _there's_ something he didn't expect. And perhaps he kind of likes Young like this – playful and competent and not above a little rule-bending. 

“Well, seeing as I've finally found someone who actually knows how to play... Let's go another round.”


	11. “Don’t you dare throw that snowba-, goddammit!”

It's been an unusually calm week, and today's planet is unusually nice. 

It's cold, a thick white blanket covers everything as far as the eye can see. But they've found clean running water in a nearby cave, and Becker and TJ are very excited about the plant life they discovered, buried under the snow. Even Rush seems relaxed, trotting through the snow while issuing orders to Eli and Greer, who follow them with some good-natured grumbling and the occasional eye roll. 

Yeah, everything is going well, everything is going easy for once, and Young finds himself trailing over to Rush for no real reason. “Everything good?” 

Rush looks up from his kino remote and gives him a short glance. “Yeah, fine. Getting a lot of interesting minerals in the soil.” 

Young hums his approval. He's not sure what those minerals could mean for Destiny, but he is sure Rush will find a way to put them to use. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and lets himself lean backwards against the slim trunk of the tree they're under. Which is a mistake, because the tree is much more elastic than he'd anticipated, and the entire trunk shudders under the sudden impact of his weight. 

Young barely has the time to get any sort of warning out before part of the foliage above Rush's head quivers and a shit-ton of snow that has been accumulating on the leaves gets dumped all over him. 

“Fuck!” Rush yells, shaking himself off like a wet dog, and Young knows he should apologize, he knows he should keep his face straight and discourage anyone else from looking over with mirth in their eyes, but instead he lets out a sharp bark of laughter at how drowned and annoyed Rush looks right now. 

“Rush,” he says, hands up in surrender as his face still doesn't quite get the message that smiling right now is _not_ the response Rush wants from him. 

“You did that on purpose!” Rush says, crouching low to gather a bunch of snow in his hands. 

“I didn't!” Young replies, backing away from Rush and the tree quickly. By now Rush is packing the snow together to form a firm snowball, and Young has to marvel a little bit at the sight of Rush – his overworked, impolite, goal-oriented chief scientist – doing something quite as childlike and mundane as starting a snowball fight. 

“Rush, I seriously didn't mean to,” he says again, because they don't have time for this, they need to gather resources, but as soon as Rush throws that snowball he knows he won't have a choice but to retaliate. “Don't you dare throw that snowba-” Rush's snowball hits him right in the jaw. “Goddammit!” 

Icy slush starts working its way beneath his collar almost immediately, and to hell with it, Rush is in for it now. 

Before long, everyone is pelting each other with snow, and Rush grins viciously as another one of his snowballs hits Young square in the back of the head. It's fun, he thinks, as he chases Rush with a handful of snow that is ready to be stuffed down his collar. 

People are shrieking and laughing around him, and even Rush seems to be finding the fun in this, squirming beneath his hands as Young attempts to squish his handful of snow into the back of his jacket. 

When they finally call a truce, when everyone is breathing hard and drenched in snow and just a little more upbeat than he's seen them in ages, Young smiles and tells them all to get back to work. 

“Three more hours before Destiny jumps,” Rush says with a twist to his lips, flicking a glance over at Young. Their eyes catch. 

Young is pretty sure the shiver that runs down his back isn't just from the melting snow inside his jacket.


	12. "I think we need to talk."

“Rush,” Young says, ignoring the way Rush ignores him. “I think we need to talk.” 

Rush sighs and turns away from his console, and Young can see from the tension in his shoulders that he'd rather be _anywhere_ else right now than have this conversation. 

“I truly don't think it's necessary,” Rush says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Something... happened,” Young says tactfully, because he doesn't think blaming Rush for that kiss is the best way to go right now. “When we thought we were going to die.” 

Rush lets out an annoyed sound, and shrugs in a way that looks entirely artificial. “People do nonsensical things when they believe they're about to die.” 

Young huffs out a breath. “I'm pretty sure it's not that simple,” he says, trying to ignore the itch beneath the pads of his fingers that tells him to go over to Rush, to grab him and hold him still while he takes his own turn kissing the living daylights out of the man. It would only be fair, after all. 

“Oh, well, of course _your_ interpretation of the situation is more important than mine,” Rush says sarcastically. He turns back to his console, like this conversation is over, and Young doesn't exactly know what happens but he finds himself within touching distance of Rush in a matter of seconds. 

“Rush,” he says, more emphatically this time. “I'm saying that we kissed, and we should talk about it before all of this blows up in our faces. We're not the only ones at stake here. The entire crew, the entire _ship_ is.” 

Rush snorts, but it sounds more like jittery nervousness than genuine distaste to Young. 

“What, you're afraid us having one moment of near-death contact will cause Destiny to crash?” 

“I'm thinking that when the two of us are at war everything goes real bad, real quick” Young counters. 

“Then forget it happened, Colonel,” Rush says. There's a note of exhaustion in his voice. “It was nothing.”

But it wasn't nothing. It hadn't been nothing. It had been him and Rush and the knowledge that within twenty seconds they'd both be blown to bits. And Rush's hands in his hair, his lips against Young's, had been enough to somehow make all of it feel worthwhile after all. 

“Rush,” Young says again, tentatively reaching out his hand to grab Rush by the arm and turn him around. Rush flinches, but he doesn't pull away completely. “What if I don't want it to be nothing?”

Rush holds himself completely still, his face and body radiating nothing but tension, and Young searches his eyes to see if he's reading this all wrong. If he's about to make another huge mistake in a long line of mistakes. He's not sure as he pulls Rush towards him by the grip on his arm. He's not sure as he reaches out his free hand to grab Rush's chin. He's not sure as he closes the distance between them slowly, gently. But it doesn't matter, he still does it, and when Rush lets his eyes fall shut and surges forward Young knows this isn't another mistake. 

Or maybe it is, he thinks wildly, as Rush claws his fingers into his jacket and yanks him closer to devour him whole. Maybe it is a huge mistake. But it's not one he's not willing to make. 


	13. "Kiss me."

"Colonel," Rush says, and Young can hear the tension in his voice. He's not sure how he got here – he's not even sure if he wants to _be_ here – but at the same time it's almost as if everything he has ever done in his life has been leading up to this moment. "Stop pulling, you'll hurt yourself." 

Young hears the order and only then realizes he's been straining against the ropes, struggling to get... what? Free? Closer? 

"You know there's an easy way out of this," Rush says, and Young is pretty sure there's genuine amusement in his voice, now. "Just say the word, and I'll let you out." 

"Fuck," Young groans, instead of saying the word that is both perched on the tip of his tongue and buried beneath a rubble so thick he hopes he'll never find it at all. " _Rush_." 

Rush chuckles and drags a finger across Young's chest. He pauses to rub a few circles over his left nipple before slipping his other hand into Young's hair and pulling his head back with an almost painful yank. "Yes?" 

Fuck, Young isn't sure what he was going to ask. He isn't sure what he wants, whether he wants more of this or whether he simply wants it all to stop, but... well, that is a lie, isn't it? 

"Kiss me," he pants, because for all that Rush has him naked and achingly hard and tied up to his bed, he still hasn't kissed Young. Not even once. Young feels his cock twitch at the idea of Rush's mouth against his, lips soft and tongue demanding, and God, yeah, he really wants Rush to kiss him already. 

Rush is quiet for a few moments before pinching Young's nipple harshly and pulling it forward to the point where it seriously fucking hurts. Young hears himself cry out, but he's not consciously aware of the act of opening his mouth and letting out a sound at all. 

"...And what will you give me in return?" Rush asks, sounding altogether diabolical. Young can't see his face because even under the makeshift blindfold his eyes are squeezed shut so tightly he doesn't know how he'll ever get them open again. Another hard yank on his hair. "Answer me." 

"Shit, I don't know, Rush," Young says, feeling his breath come in stuttering gasps as his brain tells him none of this is okay - none of this is _right_ \- but still... It's better than anything he's had in ages, and he just needs Rush to fucking keep going. Forever, if possible. 

"I think you do. I think you know exactly what you'll give me in return," Rush murmurs, before taking his earlobe into his mouth and biting down hard. 

Young moans, again, because fuck, it hurts, but it's exactly what he wants. Right now, all he knows is Rush's voice and Rush's touch and Rush's _control_ , and God, he honestly doesn't think he's ever felt this free – tied up and restrained and at the mercy of a man he'd been ready to kill not that long ago. 

"Anything, Rush," he breathes, and with a shock he realizes he means it. "Just tell me what you want and I'll do it." 

He can hear the smile in Rush's voice. Can hear it curling around his lips with the same kind of satisfied purr that he heard when Young stood next to him against Telford and Homeworld Command, before going into stasis. 

“That's it, Colonel,” Rush says, and then Young feels the lightest pressure against his lips. He moans and moves closer for more, but Rush pulls away. “Now, let's see if we can make you cry.”


	14. "Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always."

“Colonel,” Rush says, as soon as he enters Young's quarters. He starts pacing right away, and it probably isn't hard for Young to deduct that he's freaking out about this. About finding another seedship. About the possibility – no, the _inevitability_ – that they are going to dial Earth again. 

“Rush,” Young says, and the tone of his voice makes a painful kind of hope spring up in Rush's chest. This isn't the first time they've been in this situation. Things are different now than they were then, and even back then... It isn't hopeless. “I can hear you worrying from over here, alright? Stop it.” 

“You're going to _leave_ ,” Rush says, because he can't force himself to actually ask the question. He can't stomach the idea that Young might decide to go back to Earth after all. So this is what he says instead. He tries to make it sound like he is talking about all of the crew, even if he's really talking about just Young, right now. 

“Rush,” Young says again, getting up from his desk and taking both Rush's hands in his own. “I'm not going anywhere. We're going to stay here and see Destiny's mission through.” 

Rush doesn't smile. He doesn't kiss Young. He just huffs out a tired breath and squeezes Young's hands in return. 

“We're finally figuring out how to _be_ , here. We're finally starting to make things work...” Rush hears the exhaustion and the doubt in his own voice. “I know I said a dozen, back then. But realistically? That isn't enough. It's... It isn't enough.” 

“Hey,” Young says. “I'm with you, okay? Always.” 

Rush hears how earnest Young's words are. He feels how warm Young's hands are in his. He watches as Young lifts Rush's hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss against the middle knuckle. It's gentle, and sweet, and Rush can't quite believe how they got here from snarling and fighting and trying to see each other broken. 

“I don't care if it's just the two of us. We'll see this mission through,” Young says, and Rush feels a swell of such _love_ for the man that it's nearly overwhelming. It's not realistic, that they would make it, just the two of them. It's hardly realistic they'll make it with a dozen. But Young's support... it will inspire some of the crew to stay behind, he already knows that. It also makes him feel calm in a way that even pure mathematics doesn't ever quite manage. 

That night Young gathers everyone in the gateroom so he and Rush can give their speeches for the crew. People murmur and disperse when Young says they have until tomorrow to decide. Only Greer steps up to them when it's over, pledging his life once again to the Colonel, and by extension, to the ship. Rush is shaky with nerves. Even now he has no way of knowing how many people will decide to stay. He's not certain whether to allow himself to hope for the best. 

He thinks of working through the night. Of finding a complex problem to break his head over, so he won't have to think about an outcome he has zero control over. Instead, he spends the night in Young's bed, painting Young's body with strokes of pleasure in lieu of actually saying the words that are curled up underneath his tongue.

Afterwards, after all of it, after more than fifty people decide to stay and the dialing attempt turns out to be a success, he finds a quiet moment to pull Young into a storage room with him. 

“I love you,” he says. Young gives him a smile that is too easy to interpret as 'I love you, too,' and kisses him until the relief and the jitters and the tension of it all fall away. Everything is okay. They're okay. Even if Young doesn't say it back.

It isn't until much later that Rush realizes that perhaps Young _did_ say it in his own way, after all, the night before they dialed Earth. 

_'I'm with you, okay? Always.'_


	15. "So, I found this waterfall..."

Three weeks on a planet is a long time. It's good, of course. It's nature, and sunlight, and bathing in actual water. But three weeks is also a long time. Young is a bit surprised to find out he misses Destiny now that he's here. He misses her gray-brown walls, the soft hum of the FTL engines beneath his feet, the blue glow of the monitors on the consoles. Yeah, he actually finds himself missing it all, a little bit. 

It's a good thing, really, because it's not like they have a realistic way of getting back to Earth any time soon. And next week, when Destiny is back in shuttle-range, it's nice to know he won't be dreading stepping back on board. Quite the opposite. 

Still, he enjoys the planet. It appears to have been the home to a somewhat advanced civilization that left, or has been wiped out, or... well, they're still not quite sure, but it seems it all happened a few hundred years ago, at least. By now flora and fauna have retaken most of what used to be the city that they're in, and his crew have been hunting and gathering a _lot_. They'll be able to restock both of Destiny's freezer units completely, by the look of it. Young feels content. 

Even Rush, who had been particularly cranky and snappish in the weeks leading up to their stop at this planet, is more relaxed since coming here. He spends his days discovering new things in the ruins of the old city, and every now and then he comes up to Young to share some interesting new piece of technology he's found. He's rather convinced he can get some of it to work again, “Or at least figure out _how_ it works, which would make it possible to simply recreate it ourselves.” 

Things are good here. There's plenty of food. There's evenings gathered around the campfire. There's easy conversation between him and Rush, and maybe that is the strangest and the most pleasing thing of all. 

“So,” he says to Rush, taking a bite from his rabbit kebab thing and chewing thoughtfully. “I found this waterfall.”

Rush gives him a sidelong look, raises his eyebrow, and gets back to his own skewer of cubed meat and alien vegetables. 

“There's some sort of power plant next to it. Figured you might wanna check it out,” Young says. 

Rush eyes light up immediately. “Water energy?” 

Young nods. “From what I could tell. It looked to be in working condition, mostly.” 

“If we can power it up we could get electricity to at least parts of the city...” Rush ponders out loud, and Young smiles. That's exactly what he'd been thinking. 

“Where is it?” Rush asks. 

“I'll take you,” Young answers. It's a two hour hike. He looks at the sky, the darkening orange glow of this planet's atmosphere as the sun sets in what they've dubbed 'west' for the sake of simplicity. “Tomorrow morning.” 

Rush looks like he wants to protest, but then he seems to understand that trying to get an alien power plant online in the middle of the night might not be the best idea. He hums his assent. 

Rush takes another bite of meat, and Young's eyes trace over his face carefully for a few seconds. He still hasn't figured Rush out. Not all of him. But the man is here, and he's not making any move to sit somewhere else to eat, and he seems pleased with the news Young just brought him. Young smiles again and turns back to his own dinner. Somehow, they're figuring things out.


	16. "It could be worse."

“Fuck!” Rush curses, and Young feels the whoosh of his breath against his jaw. Jesus it's tight in here. 

“Get us out, Rush,” he says, trying to keep the strain out of his voice. Rush is pressed up against him in this... Ancient broom closet? He's not sure what the hell this literal hole in the wall is, all he knows is that it's tiny and cramped and too goddamn close to Rush. 

“You think I'm not trying?” Rush snaps at him, and again Young feels disoriented by the warm gust of breath skittering over his skin. “It's fucking stuck!” 

_“Colonel Young, come in.”_

Young reaches for his radio, realizes there is not enough room to bring it to his mouth, and has to do the most uncomfortable shuffle he's ever done to finally get it up to his face and answer. “This is Young. What happened, Scott? We're stuck in the wall somewhere.” 

_“We're not sure, sir. Brody thinks it might have something to do with the unstable air pressure in the corridors you were in. Like some sort of safety mechanism.”_ A commotion sounds through the radio. _“Oh, shit, an entire part of the hull just blew out!”_

Young sighs. Of course. Because when had luck _ever_ been on his side? 

“Well. It could be worse,” Rush says, and his voice sounds like he has somehow accepted the awfulness of the situation with a sort of resigned hilarity. 

“At least we weren't in FTL when it happened,” Young says, finishing Rush's thought. 

“That. And I originally planned to take Volker along.” 

Young huffs out a short laugh. Rush's body is firm and hot against him, and Young is still awkwardly holding the radio in between their faces. He can feel Rush's chest moving every time he takes a breath, and God, this whole thing has the potential to get real uncomfortable, real fast. Well... _more_ uncomfortable. 

_“The shields are back up, sir, so the corridor itself should be safe again. Brody is trying to reroute the power through the surrounding areas so he can open the hatch remotely. It's, uh... It's going to take a little while. At least thirty minutes, he says.”_

“Alright, Scott. Keep me posted,” Young says. His arm is already starting to cramp a bit. “Rush, lemme,” he says, and worms the hand with the radio upwards and to the side until he has his arm slung around Rush's neck in a one-armed embrace. 

“What the fuck, Colonel!” Rush says with a flinch and a shove that doesn't really do anything because there is no fucking where to _go_. 

“Look, if we're gonna have to stand all pressed up against each other, keeping our arms squashed in between our bodies is only going to make it more uncomfortable,” he says reasonably. “You can put your arms around me, if you want.” 

Rush shakes his head. Young can't see it, because the space they're in is completely dark, but he feels the wisps of Rush's hair tickle his jaw as he moves. “You're ridiculous,” he says. 

But after a few minutes he gives in and wraps his arms loosely around Young's waist, anyway. In the end, it's actually kind of nice. Like getting a really long hug. From Rush. 

Maybe he's wanted that for a while.


	17. "Looks like we'll be trapped for a while..."

“So,” Young says, in that typical voice that is the opposite of telltale. “Any brilliant plans to get us out of here?” 

Rush gives him a nonplussed look and crosses his arms over his chest while surveying the bleak little room they're in. It's odd, really, how an alien cell can look so different and still so similar to its Earth equivalent. Bare walls. Two hard-looking cots. Single, heavy door that hasn't been open since they were shoved in here.

“And what would you have me do, then?” he says. “Magic our way out of here?” 

Young gives him a small smile that seems exasperated, but also a bit indulgent. “Just making sure, Rush.” 

“You seem awfully calm for someone who is quite probably about to be executed by a bunch of hostile aliens.” 

Young sits down on one of the cots and scrubs his hands over his face. “Greer and TJ know we're here. They'll come for us.” 

Well. It's good to know at least the Colonel seems to think they'll be okay. He kind of wishes he could have the same type of faith in the military right now. His fingers itch with the need to do something, _anything_ to get them out of here before it's too late, but there is nothing to do. Nothing at all he can use to break them free. Not in this barren room. 

His eyes keep flicking back to Young. Young, the only thing that isn't completely sterile, completely devoid of anything... And suddenly he _wants_. 

It isn't exactly new, although it hasn't been more than three months since they first did anything about it. A few too many drinks at Brody's still had lowered inhibitions enough to stumble into something of a drunken tryst – sloppy kisses and hard touches and nearly simultaneous orgasms – and even if they had only done it one other time, it was that second time that really cemented that this was now a _thing_.

They hadn't been drunk, that second time. They didn't have that excuse. And Rush knows his mouth had refused to stay quiet, knows he'd babbled nonsense and filth and things he'd never planned to tell anyone, let alone Young. 

So when he sinks to his knees in front of Young, when he leans forward between his thighs and starts fumbling with the man's belt, he barely feels the flush of embarrassment streak over his cheeks. Young already knows. Young already knows he likes this, he _wants_ this, and right now he thinks he might even _need_ it to keep from driving himself insane. 

“Rush, what are y—” Young says, but he bites off his sentence when Rush opens his trousers and draws his prick out through the slit in his boxers. It's still soft, warm and thick and heavy in his hand, and Rush curls his fingers around it with deliberate intent. He's never seen Young's cock like this before.

“Looks like we'll be trapped for a while...” he says, bending forward to lap a few long trails over the shaft with his tongue. He can feel the first stirrings underneath his fingertips, and the corner of his mouth quirks up with something that might be pride and might be affection and might be arousal. “Might as well.” 

Young doesn't say anything as Rush leans forward to kiss and lick and stroke his cock to full hardness, but he opens his legs a little bit wider, and he lets his fingers trail through the hair on the back of Rush's head as Rush sucks him deeper inside. Young shudders when Rush swallows around him, and Rush feels his own prick twitch in excitement. Yes, he thinks. This certainly suffices as a good distraction from their current predicament.

If they make it out of here, he's going to do it more often.


	18. "This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course I’m in."

“This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you've ever had,” Young says. Rush feels the indignant response fall still on his lips when he realizes Young is grinning, sharp and hard and _dangerous_. “Of course I'm in.” 

Fuck, it's disconcerting, the way Rush's stomach kind of lurches at that. Must be the alcohol. Definitely the alcohol. It's not his fault, these work parties are fucking excruciating, and the only way to get through them is to take heavy advantage of the free liquor. Luckily Young seems to share his opinion on that, because he's obviously pretty sauced himself as well. 

Young's eyes kind of squint in amusement, like he'd just said all of that out loud. Rush ignores it and turns into the hallway. A few moments later, he hears Young following behind him, the raucous sounds of the party fading into stillness until it's just their footsteps in the quiet hall leading up to Eli's office. 

Step one, he thinks, as he settles in behind Eli's computer and gets to work on cracking his password. Young stays outside, keeping guard, and Rush curses quietly after his first six tries fail miserably. Shit, he's too drunk for this right now. 

He keeps trying, and his heart speeds into overdrive when he hears the muffled “Principal Young?” from Eli. 

On the other side of the flimsy door, Young's voice is easy as he asks Eli about Ginn, which works as quite a fine distraction as Eli immediately starts stammering, all awkward fumbles and near-audible blushes. Rush feels a light bulb go off over his head as he changes tacks and starts entering passwords related to her name. 

'Ginn02022014' he types in, and God, the kid is an idiot, because now he's in. That was the date she'd first started as his aide. Fool. He finds the folder of compromising pictures easily, and he waits for Young to lead Eli away from his office before slipping out of the door and making his way over to Telford's office. 

Young meets him a few minutes later, and his steps are really quite too even for how much he drank. 

“You got it?” he asks, and Rush nods in response as Young puts Telford's key in the lock and opens the door. 

Cracking Telford's laptop is easier, because Young – sneaky bastard that he is – has apparently been paying attention every time Telford entered his password with him in the room. Rush feels a sharp grin settle on his own features. This will be great. Tomorrow, when Telford will undoubtedly ask them all inside for another one of his 'morning meetings', everyone will see it. Bloody good. Telford is a right arse. He deserves it. 

The quick insertion of a USB stick and a few clicks of the mouse, and the picture is displayed prominently as Telford's new background screen. Young chuckles from behind him, and Rush feels the strangest sense of camaraderie with the man. They'd butted heads for a long time when Young was instated as principal of their school, and they'd made each other's lives a living hell doing it. But now it seems they've moved past that, and despite the fact that he still thinks Young is an idiot, and that Young still thinks he's a complete jerk most of the time, he kind of thinks they make a good team like this. 

Young actually gives him a high-five when they're done, and Rush is still reeling with the strangeness of it all as they pad their way back to the party. 

The next morning, when Telford opens his laptop and everyone in the room is treated to the sight of him in a ratty wig, doing a very drunk – and atrociously bad – rendition of Whitney Houston's 'I Will Always Love You' at 2010's office party, he exchanges secret grins with Young. 

His head is an aching mess, and Telford eyes him suspiciously, but still. So very worth it.


	19. "The paint's supposed to go where?"

“Wait,” Young says. “Back up. The paint's supposed to go _where_?” 

Rush rolls his eyes at him. “Very funny, Colonel. I'm just saying that the repairs need to be precise, or we risk losing even more of our recharge capacities.” 

“I heard you, Rush. Now either stop micromanaging, or join me in the shuttle for the work.” 

Young has been doing that a lot, lately. Not quite rising to the bait of Rush's sneers, and then offering him a choice to compromise. He's not sure why that's made him _more_ inclined to try to annoy the man, because in all reality it's an effective method. Perhaps that is why he feels such a strong urge to get a reaction from Young, because as it is right now, it seems Young has a better handle on _him_ than vice versa. And that's simply unacceptable. 

In the end he decides to take Young up on his offer, and he spends most of the time in the co-pilot chair making irritating jabs about his handiwork. Young ignores it for the most part, although he does send him a rather scorching glare when he actually almost messes up because Rush is too busy trying to get under his skin to pay attention to the delicate repairs they're making. 

After the work is done Young sits back in his chair and gives Rush a long look. 

“Shouldn't you be radioing in to tell them we're done?” Rush asks, feeling oddly vulnerable under that stare. 

“Shouldn't you be a bit more careful?” Young retorts, and fuck, Rush feels his heartbeat rocket up at his intonation. This is Young when he knows he has the upper hand. When he knows he could beat the shit out of Rush if he so chose. Has he gone too far? Is Young going to hit him? He wants to say no, but he can never quite tell with Young. He gets up out of his own chair – the height advantage makes him feel slightly better as he leans back against the wall beside Young with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“I've no idea to what you're referring,” he says, keeping his eyes trained carefully on Young's form. He hasn't gotten out of the chair yet, so if he is planning on starting a fight, Rush might still have time to avert it. 

“What is this, Rush? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you are pulling my pigtails because you don't know how to say that you're attracted to me like a normal adult.” 

Rush sputters, because what the _fuck_ kind of conclusion is _that_ to jump to?! 

Young is an idiot. Young is a fucking barely functioning half-wit with a skull shape that suggests some pretty strong ties to his goddamn Cro-Magnon heritage, and in what ludicrous parallel universe would he _ever_ be attracted to that boar of a man? 

Jesus, Young is such a presumptuous bastard, and he should say all of this out loud – he should tell Young what a bloody ridiculous display he's making of himself – but it's kind of hard when Young's tongue is in his mouth and Rush's hands are scrabbling viciously to get at the skin underneath Young's uniform. 

And, alright, _maybe_ Young did have a point, because he's practically straddling the man's lap by now, and he hears himself making desperate little noises into Young's mouth, and _he can't make himself stop_ , and this is the first time his brain has felt quiet and content since... fuck, since longer than he can remember. 

“Well,” Young says, pulling back before the situation can devolve into rough handjobs and awkward stains that can't be explained to the crew. “I guess that answers that.” 

Rush scoffs and shoves away from him. “Don't flatter yourself, Colonel.” 

He knows he's already lost when Young just snorts and shakes his head at him in response.


	20. "You need to wake up because I can't do this without you."

“It might help,” Johansen says, as he drags a stool to Young's bedside. “If you... you know, if you talk to him.” 

Rush ignores her. Ignores her advice, and ignores her _presence_ , perhaps partially because this makes it clear that she knows. She knows about him and Young, and she seems to have accepted it with a calm professionalism that Rush would have been grateful for any other day. 

She leaves them alone, after that, and Rush is left looking at Young's still form in the infirmary cot. His breaths slow and deep, but somehow entirely different from actual sleep. Rush knows, because he's spent too many nights in Young's bed. 

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't touch Young. Doesn't hold his hand or stroke his hair or do any of those melodramatic things that happen in soap operas too often. 

Instead, the thought that they should never have done this, that they should never have gone into stasis a second time – even if it was only for six weeks – circles around in his brain until he somehow slips into sleep in the chair beside Young's comatose form. 

His subconsciousness betrays him, of course it does, and Rush wakes up from a nightmare of Young dying, begging for Rush not to leave him behind, and Rush's breaths come in in stuttering pants and a silent plea when he wakes up. “Colonel,” he gasps, feeling tears blur his vision as he takes in Young's still shape, the surroundings of the quiet infirmary. It's night, and they're alone here, and Rush can't stop himself from running a quick hand over Young's chest. 

“Colonel Young,” he says again, hoping that somehow the sound of his voice will wake Young up. Why the hell did he allow Young to take the least secure pod? He should have done something else, something _more_ , to ensure that Young made it through, despite the man's wishes. 

' _You need to wake up, because I can't do this without you_ ,' he thinks at Young. In this moment, in the dark, cold, lonely infirmary, it feels true. “Wake up,” is all he manages to say out loud. 

In a perfect world, in a fairytale, that would have been the moment Young's eyes fluttered open. Confused and bewildered and locking on his own, suddenly filling with deep love at the picture of Rush's distraught face. 

Instead, it takes Young two more weeks to finally awaken from his coma. Rush doesn't even have the heart to blame him for it. When Young groans and carefully lifts his hand to brush it through Rush's hair, Rush can't think anything but, _'Yes. You're okay. You're mine.'_ All that comes out is, “Colonel.” 

“Rush,” Young says, almost three days later. “TJ told me that you sat with me every night.” 

Rush doesn't feel very inclined to answer, so he tightens his grip on Young's prick and pushes him harder into the wall. The way Young's breath hitches – the way Young strokes his own hand over Rush at a quickening pace – is much better than having this conversation about emotions and unkeepable promises right now. 

“Rush,” Young breathes again, when they've both come. When they're both panting and loose-limbed and pressed up against the wall together. “I'm not gonna leave you, okay?” 

Rush takes in a breath that is much more unsteady than he would've preferred and lets his head rest against Young's cheek in a way that is too revealing. _'Please don't make me do this alone,'_ he thinks at Young. 

“See that you don't,” comes out, instead.

The look on Young's face and the soft, soft kiss he presses into Rush's mouth make him think that perhaps Young perfectly understands what he means after all.


	21. “We're in the middle of a thunderstorm, and you want to stop and feel the rain?”

“Hm,” Young says, stopping their trek and angling his face up towards the sky. It's been a while since he felt rain, actual watery, non-acidic _rain_ , pelting down on his skin. “Rain.” 

Rush gives him an exasperated look, and Young can tell he's annoyed by Young's pause. “We're in the middle of a thunderstorm, and you want to stop and feel the rain?” 

Young smiles. Rush sounds irritated and tense, and he does make a reasonable point – they have no way of knowing the lightning won't strike anywhere near them at the moment – but the sensation of raindrops dripping down on his hair, below his collar, is something he won't take for granted quite so easily anymore. Besides, the fact that Rush is standing next to him, judging him with his eyebrows and that slight cant to his hips, rather than simply stomping on ahead is making something giddy and warm unfurl in his belly.

Rush's hair is dark and limp with rain, and his military issue jacket is too large on him, and little rivulets of water run down his skin and get lost somewhere in his beard. He looks... Well, Young is not above admitting that he looks appealing like this. Oh, who is he kidding? At this point he'd probably think Rush looks appealing in full clown gear. The guy had wormed his way under Young's skin on day one, and he'd never left. The emotions he invokes may be different now (mostly), but the intensity of Young's feelings hasn't wavered. 

“What?” Rush snaps, a sliver of discomfort and uncertainty creeping along the edges of his frown. 

Oh. Young must have been staring. He's been doing that a lot lately. Apparently Rush has noticed it, too. “Nothing,” he says, trying to sound indifferent. “Let's get back to the gate.” 

Silence falls between them like an awkward blanket as they make their way back to the gate. James and Dunning are guarding the gate, waiting for the last team to make it back. Young nods at them as Rush dials back to Destiny. 

The gateroom is full of people and the fruits and vegetables they have gathered on the planet. Young shrugs out of his jacket and helps organize the collected items. Rush simply strides out of the gateroom, and if Young looks at his retreating form for longer than is entirely appropriate, no one seems to notice. 

It comes as a bit of a surprise when Rush leans onto the railing next to him, that night. Young takes his eyes of the observation window and glances over at him. Rush has his back against the metal railing, elbows hooked over it casually. He doesn't look at Young. 

“Rush?” Young asks, when it becomes clear Rush isn't going to break the silence between them. Rush seems annoyed by Young's voice. Like Young disturbed his thoughts. He also looks oddly apprehensive, now. 

“I've noticed,” Rush starts, and his eyes flick up to Young's quickly before returning to the door opening of the observation deck. “That something has changed, lately.” 

Young considers playing dumb. Considers saying, 'Oh? Like what?' and forcing Rush to say the actual words. Instead he just sighs and lets his own eyes glide back to the wispy colors of the FTL trails. “Yeah.” An uncomfortably large part of him wants to apologize, to say it isn't a big deal. But those are not the kind of pleasantries they exchange with each other, and it would be a lie, anyway. 

“Should we ignore it?” Rush asks. 

“I won't _do_ anything,” Young answers, slightly angry. It's not like Rush has to worry about being assaulted, for God's sake. 

Rush makes an irritated sound, but then he reaches out his hand over the railing until it's just touching the edge of Young's pinky. “That's not what I meant.” 

And oh. _Oh_. Young's heart is suddenly beating at double pace. Rush wants it, too. 

Young keeps his hand completely still on the railing, not breaking their fragile contact. All of his skin feels hot and flushed already, just from this small amount of touch. 

“No,” he says, when he can finally find his voice again. A small smile tugs at his lips at this unexpected turn of events. “I don't think we should ignore it.”


	22. "I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice."

“Okay, but listen,” Eli says. “How about we don't do that?” 

Rush sighs in annoyance, and he can feel Young's eyes burning into the side of his face. “It's not as if anyone else has come up with a better plan, is it?” he says. Because it's not. If sacrificing one person means all of them get to make it out of this alive, it's a hard choice he's willing to make, even if Young and Eli clearly hate him for it. 

Well, fuck them, anyway, because Rush has done more to keep this crew alive than the two of them combined. 

Eli opens his mouth to say something back – and Rush guesses it will be something confrontational and intended to prove that he's a full member of the science team now, at least as smart as Rush, and blah blah blah. More childish demands for respect – but Young cuts in before the boy can speak. 

“Keep looking, Rush,” he says. “If there is another way, I know you'll find it.” 

Rush doesn't reply. Perhaps he feels something flutter under his breastbone at the thought that Young believes in him – even though his statement could easily extend to the entire science team – but he's not about to acknowledge that, and he's not about to acknowledge Young. 

“You've got three hours.” 

Obviously Rush already knows that. Obviously he's aware of the time frame, seeing as _he_ was the one to just give it to Young in the first place. Christ, the man is effective when it comes to getting on Rush's nerves. 

The thing is, though, that Volker _does_ come up with something. Fucking Volker comes up with a plan to save them all, and Rush is as annoyed by that as he is by the fact that Young's 'wait until the last minute to make any tough decisions' attitude worked in his favor _again_. 

Young's eyes linger on him when Volker explains his idea, and Rush feels the irritating need to fidget under them. 

“Rush,” Young says in the mess hall, later that night. “You did good.” 

And fuck him anyway, because no, obviously he _didn't_ do _well_ , because he didn't see what goddamn Volker _did_.

“There is something wrong with you,” he says, as bitingly as he can. 

Young frowns and brings his spoon back down to his bowl. “What?” 

“You should not be in charge of this ship,” Rush says. “You're going to get us all killed.” 

Young ruffles at that, and Rush almost feels the sweet surge of, ' _yes, he's going to snap, he's going to hurt me,_ ' before Young gets himself under control again. 

“Rush,” he says, with an amount of calm that _has_ to be artificial. “I know why you're lashing out, but cut it out.” 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice,” Young says darkly. “And I get it, I really do. This is messed up, even for our standards. But Jesus fucking Christ, stop being such a child about it.” 

Rush feels like he can't get enough air into his lungs. Like all the oxygen in his blood has vaporized in an instant. 

He's almost glad the table between them makes it impossible to hit Young, because he knows he'd have lost the fight. But still every atom of his being tells him to hurt Young. To drag this moment into violence and pain, rather than the mortified humiliation he's feeling right now. 

He's not entirely sure what to make of it when all his jittery aggression falls away the second Young links his fingers around Rush's wrist with a quiet murmur of, “It's not one-sided.” 

“Fuck you,” Rush says. But he doesn't yank his hand away.


	23. "Just once."

“Rush,” Young moans – he full on goddamn _moans_ , and Rush feels his pulse skitter nervously without his own consent. “Please. Just once.” 

“You're under the influence of an alien poison, Colonel,” Rush reminds him. Like that's going to help. Like all his reasonable, rational arguments are somehow going to make Young less desperate for this. 

“I just need one,” Young says, grabbing his hand and fucking sniffing it, like a dog. When he laps his tongue across the back of Rush's fingers, Rush pulls his hand away with a start. 

“ _Colonel_ ,” he says again, hoping his voice comes out sounding more demanding than nervous. He's not quite sure he succeeds. “We need to get back to the ship.” 

“I know, Rush. I know,” Young says, and he sounds fucking _placating_ , and none of this is what Rush signed up for when he agreed to go to the planet with Young. “But I don't know if I'm gonna make it if you don't kiss me. _Please_.” 

And Jesus, this is the epitome of a no-win-scenario, because either he gives in and Young will hate him for it, or he doesn't and Young will keep dragging his feet and grabbing at him and getting sicker. He already looks clammy and pale, and the two bright spots of red on his cheeks make it clear he's running a fever. 

“You don't know what you're saying,” Rush says. Pleads, really. “Please come with me. It's not that far. Lieutenant Johansen will patch you up.” 

Young moans at the mention of Johansen's name, and that is just fucking rude, Rush thinks. He's definitely not going to kiss Young now. 

“ _Rush_ ,” Young breathes. “Fuck, I'm sorry. I can't... You have to leave.” 

“Colonel?” Rush asks, because Young seems to have refound a bit of himself, just now, and he's not about to leave the man behind on this planet to die. Which is, he realizes, slightly ironic. It does feel nice to have the moral upper hand, for a change. 

“Go!” Young says, but his hand is curling around Rush's wrist again, and even if Rush wanted to leave, he wouldn't be able to with that tight grip on his arm. 

“Let go of me,” he says quietly to Young. Young looks away as if he's in pain and yanks his hand off of Rush's wrist. A second later he has both hands on Rush's shoulders, though, thumbs stroking against his throat, and _fuck_ , he's really much too close right now. 

“Rush,” Young says again, like Rush's name is the only thing he still knows for certain. “Shit.” And then he's kissing Rush, biting and licking and sucking on his tongue until Rush possibly loses the plot for a bit and reciprocates in a way that is nearly as desperate as the poison has made Young. 

_Fuck, fuck, FUCK_ , he thinks, as he pulls away from the kiss, flushed and panting. Young looks... he looks a little better, although his eyes are still just as dazed as they've been from the moment that mushroom thing blew its spores all over him. 

“Okay,” Young says, sounding out of breath, but slightly calmer anyway. “I think I can walk now.” 

Rush curses internally again, and starts guiding Young back to the gate. 

It isn't until the next afternoon that Young comes up to him and apologizes. It isn't until then that he says 'Thank you,' and in the end, that is what makes it entirely alright to pull Young's face to his own and get back what he'd given the man yesterday. This time neither of them has an excuse, and when Rush groans and pushes forward, and Young circles his arms around Rush's back to pull their bodies flush together, they both seem to be a little surprised by what's happening. 

Young doesn't appear to mind, though. And Rush... well, he can't say that he does, either.


	24. "You're the only one I trust to do this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Err, so I was maybe a _little_ bit drunk when I wrote this one. There's some slightly creepy shit going on here.  
>  **Warnings for:** knifeplay, blood, cutting.

“Colonel,” Rush says, and Young still doesn't know how to respond to that tone of voice, despite all the months they've been doing this. Or, well. Not _this_ , exactly. “Please. You're the only one I trust to do this.” 

It shouldn't work, not that easily, because Young knows that Rush knows that it does, and God, he's being manipulated right where he's standing, and it's fucking _working_. 

“I don't know if I can do this,” Young says. Admits. 

“You can,” Rush reassures him. “I want you to.” 

Young looks at his face, looks at his bare chest and the slight tremble that seems to have taken permanent residence in it. He can't do it. He can't carve Rush up like a piece of fucking prime rib. He just _can't_. 

“Young,” Rush says. “ _Please_.” 

It's the third time he's heard Rush say that word in as many minutes, and fuck, he hates himself for it, but that really does something to him. 

“Why?” he asks, ignoring the way his own cock is starting to mirror Rush's, hard and taut in his pants. 

“You know why,” Rush groans, straining against the belt that has his arms tied behind his back. “Want you to make me yours.” 

“You already _are_ ,” Young growls, falling easily into his role. “You're _mine_ , Rush. You know that.” 

“Prove it,” Rush says, and this is the first time Young can actually see himself do it. Can actually see himself slicing his initials into Rush's flesh with the scalpel the man has stolen from the infirmary (he'll have to return it to TJ, a voice in the back of his mind says. It's not like she has an unlimited supply). 

“Rush,” he says again. He's not sure how he's going to finish his sentence. 'You know this is going to hurt'? Laughable. Rush _wants_ it to hurt. 'I can't stand to see you bleed'? Too hypocritical, taking their history into account. 

“I want you to be happy,” is all he can think to say, in the end. 

“Then do it,” Rush moans, straining against the belt again. His eyes are finally open enough to look Young in the face. Young feels his breath catch at the sincerity in his gaze. “Fuck, _please_ , alright? Please do it.” 

Jesus, he can't say no to that. It's a problem, he is aware of that. It's a huge goddamn problem that he can't say no to Rush when he gets like this, because the man is a fucking hazard. Most of all to himself. 

He knows all of this, yet he still picks up the scalpel from the nightstand. “Did you even think to disinfect it?” he asks. Rush doesn't answer. Of course he doesn't, because Young knows he didn't. Some sick part of him probably _wants_ it to get infected. To sizzle and scar and hurt for _months_. Well, Young is not going to let that happen. He grabs his flask of Brody's strongest, and uses a clean cloth to rub both the metal tool and the skin of Rush's chest free of bacteria. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he orders Rush. “I mean it.” 

Rush just nods, and then his eyes are squeezed shut again as Young cuts a three inch diagonal line into his upper right pectoral. Not too deep, barely more than a millimeter, but it still bleeds like crazy. Rush makes the most exquisite noise, and Young feels like this is fucking him up good. Like he is crossing wires and making himself into a bigger monster than he ever could have imagined. He mops up the worst of the blood before slicing in a second, shorter line. 

' _Just the 'Y'_ ,' he tells himself. ' _Just the 'Y'._ ' Anything more would be too much. 

He wets the cloth with more of Brody's alcohol, and presses it down hard against Rush's chest. Rush spasms and cries out, and with a disturbing surge of perverted pride Young wonders whether Rush just came. 

' _It's not going to scar,_ ' he thinks to himself. He's not going to let it. He's not going to let Rush reopen the wounds once they're closed. He has to put his foot down on that. 

“Young,” Rush breathes, and Young looks up to his face to see his eyes staring back at him, hazy and dazed, but scorchingly hot as well. “Please fuck me now.” 

And Jesus. It's not like he has much choice. He's already in so much deeper than he ever could have imagined. He's already fucking lost. Rush has him completely under his power. No matter what it might look like to an innocent observer, Rush is the one truly in control here. 

When he finally drives his hips forward into Rush, when he thrusts his way, _their_ way to climax, he tries and fails not to look at the inflamed and slick incisions he has made on Rush's chest. A deep, red, painful looking 'Y', that he put there. In a sick way it's kind of beautiful, and in the end he comes looking at his own initial carved into Rush's flesh. 

Later, in the darkness of night, he wonders how much further they can take this before one of them collapses.


	25. "I can't believe you talked me into this."

“Jesus Christ, Rush. Stop whining and just change into the dress already,” Young says. Easy for him to say. His dress is a pretty tame number, dark blue and more like a wizard's robe than an actual dress. 

Rush's... Rush's dress is white and glittery and it has cleavage that plunges to his fucking navel, and a slit up the side that goes almost just as high. 

“I can't believe you talked me into this,” Rush grumbles, as he works the dress on over his head. 

Young snorts. “ _I_ talked _you_ into this? Who was the one who said these aliens might have a bunch of interesting technology to share?” 

“I sure as fuck wouldn't have suggested it if I'd known they wanted us to join their goddamn purity ritual, Colonel.” 

“Yeah, well,” Young says unhelpfully. “We're in it now, so let's just get this over with and try to make it back to Destiny alive, alright?” 

Rush curses at him quietly, and pulls the dress down until it's in place. 

Young is giving him an odd look, somewhere between amused and slightly uncertain, and then he's moving closer to tug gently at the fabric near his thighs. “You've got,” he says, straightening the dress until it's a little less revealing. “There.” 

Rush isn't sure why his heart is suddenly beating so loudly. It must have something to do with Young's proximity. The man usually only invades his personal space like this to threaten him, to get him to back down. It's nothing less than understandable that his adrenaline production goes into overdrive at Young touching him like this. He never touches Rush in a friendly way – not since that unappreciated hair ruffle when they first came to Destiny. Christ, that feels like a lifetime ago. 

“We look ridiculous,” Rush says, in lieu of saying something as trite and uncomfortable as 'thank you'. 

Young gives him a rueful little smile. “Yeah. But when in Rome, huh?” He gives Rush a once-over that is either scrutinizing or humorous. “At least you've got the legs to pull it off.” 

“Ha fucking ha, Colonel,” Rush says.

The thing is, neither of them could have predicted the ritual would be quite so... hands on. 

The other thing is, neither Young nor Rush expected that one of them would have to play the 'sacrifice' in the ritual. Or that it would be the person in the less revealing blue robe who got dealt that role. The glittery white dress actually embodies power and agency, it seems. Good for the aliens. 

When they are back in the dressing room, still red-faced and hard of breath and with hearts that beat quicker than they usually do, Young gives him a short look before glancing away. 

“So that never happened,” he says, when he's got his voice back. Rush ignores the hoarse rasp in the back of Young's throat. He doesn't need the reminder of what just went down. 

“No,” he says, agreeing with Young without struggle, for once. “None of that happened.” 

They don't need to remember this. It was just a thing they did to get their hands on resources that Destiny desperately needed. Nothing else. 

But if, three weeks later, Young finds his way into Rush's quarters to see if they can repeat the thing that never happened... Rush is entirely alright with that.


	26. "I got you a present."

When Rush steps into the room, Young is behind his desk. He's wearing his glasses, the ones that always make him look older and somehow kind of harmless, typing away drudgingly on his laptop. Rush doesn't understand why the man still types using only the first three fingers on both hands, but he can't deny the Colonel makes kind of an endearing picture like this. 

“Rush,” Young says in greeting, and Rush tries not to feel flattered that his first response is to close his laptop and take off his glasses. 

“I got you a present,” Rush says, instead of revealing any of his private thoughts. 

Young groans, presses a hand against his forehead, and chuckles. “You know I was being facetious when I said your dick was God's gift to mankind, right?” For a quick second Rush regrets engaging Young in that contest of increasingly awful pick-up lines to prove that Young had been full of shit when he'd said he couldn't get it up after hearing them. 

Rush feels his own lips curl up in response to Young's quip, and wanders over to his desk so Young is within touching distance. “Facetious? That's a pretty big word, Colonel. Especially for a liar.” 

Young gives him an exasperated look and gets up from his chair to stand in between Rush's open legs. “Yeah, I'd better watch out. Wouldn't want you to think I actually know how to speak English.” 

Rush huffs out a breath in amusement and puts his hands into Young's hair. “Shut up. I actually did get you something.” 

“Oh?” Young says, before leaning in and bumping his nose against Rush's for a second. It's oddly sweet, for how much time they've spent trying to make each others' lives miserable. 

“Here,” Rush says, fishing around in his pocket for the small item before pressing it into Young's palm. 

“A bullet?” Young asks, pulling back a little and studying the metal thing in his hand. 

“It's a prototype, but it should work,” Rush answers, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious. 

A slow smile breaks out over Young's face, and Rush feels the quivering nerves in his chest quiet down and morph into something warmer at that look. “You made me ammo?” 

“Well,” Rush says, curling his fingers into the meat on Young's sides. “Brody helped.” 

“Rush,” Young says, and he clinks the bullet down on the desk carefully before crowding Rush and leaning in for a gentle kiss. It's really quite chaste for what they're used to, but Rush still feels his heart beat a high-paced staccato in his chest when Young pulls away. “Thank you.” 

And suddenly this is too close, too intimate, too _loving_. Rush feels the compulsion to drag it dirtier, because he's not quite sure how else to deal with Young when he gets like this. 

He puts his hand on Young's cock, still soft and drowsy, a heavy weight warm in his palm, and squeezes lightly. “I take payment in kind.” 

Young snorts out a laugh, and slips his hands into the waistband of Rush's trousers to cup his arse. “I have no idea why you still feel the need to buy the cow.” 

It's Rush's turn to snort, now, because yeah, Young has made it pretty clear that he is up for as much as, if not more than Rush, when it comes to this... this _thing_ between them. “Well,” he rumbles, moving in for another kiss. Deeper and wetter, this time. “I don't like sharing the milk.”


	27. "I'm pregnant."

“I'm pregnant,” TJ says, and Young feels like the rug is pulled out from under him. 

“How long?” he hears himself ask. And he can't even ask anything more. He can't even ask whose it is, because they're not _like that_ anymore, and fuck, he feels like a jerk for the hot surge of jealous appropriation he feels towards TJ and her baby right now. It's not fair, and he knows that, but shit. 

“Three months, almost,” she answers. This is clearly just as uncomfortable for her as it is for him. “It's Varro's.” 

Alright. He'd suspected that they'd been together for a while, of course, but it still hurts to hear it. To hear that she's truly moved on. He's also weirdly grateful that she chose to share this information with him, and the bulky mess of contradicting emotions he's feeling makes his head spin. God, all of this is so fucked up. 

“It's going to be okay, TJ,” he says. He wishes he could take her hand, pull her into a hug, and show her how much she really means to him. Instead he just gives her a weak smile and a bunch of words that could never sufficiently convey how much he cares. “Your baby and you, you will both be fine. We'll take care of you.” 

The way she smiles back at him makes him think she somehow understands, after all. 

Later, he finds himself in front of Rush's quarters with a few too many of Brody's drinks in his system and the awkward feeling as if he's either going to cry or hit something. 

“Colonel,” Rush says, and his eyes are surprised and wary, but he still ushers Young inside. “Is something the matter?” 

“TJ is pregnant,” Young says bluntly, sagging down onto Rush's bed. He's not quite sure why he says it so easily, but by now Rush has seen him at his worst anyway, and it's not like he has any appearances left to keep up with the man. 

“Ah,” Rush says, giving Young a calculating look. “Whose is it?” 

Young snorts. What an uncharacteristically careful way of asking if it's his. “Not mine,” he answers. “Obviously.” 

“Yes,” Rush says. “Obviously.” 

“What the fuck is your problem, Rush?” Young asks, suddenly finding a good target for this nebulous anger in Rush's annoying goddamn tone of voice. 

“You're drunk, Colonel,” Rush says, and he sounds kind of resigned. “Anything you do or say right now, you're just going to regret.” 

Young feels an angry laugh spill out of his mouth. Rush isn't wrong. There's also little he can do to stop it, now. He's already lost TJ. He's already _here_ , of all places. 

“Colonel,” Rush says, sitting down next to him and patting his arm gingerly. It's an oddly nice gesture, coming from him. “Perhaps you need to sleep it off.” 

“Sometimes I think about you when I jerk off,” Young says. Like that's in any way an appropriate response. 

Rush recoils from him physically, but Young thinks it's shock at his words more than actual distaste of them. He's not blind; he's seen the way Rush looks at him.

He still feels like an asshole for saying it, though.

“I'm sorry,” he apologizes. “I'm drunk.” 

He refuses to look at Rush's face, but he can hear the hint of amusement in Rush's voice when he finally responds. “I know. Lie down.” 

Young does as Rush says, and when Rush works off his shoes and folds the covers of his bed on top of him, he wonders whether maybe Rush isn't as big of a jerk as he'd always thought. 

The next morning, when he wakes up with a hangover and Rush's elbow is jabbing painfully into his side and Rush curses and tells Young to get the fuck out, Young decides that no, Rush is _definitely_ every bit as big of a jerk as he'd always thought. 

When he pretends he's still asleep and refuses to budge from Rush's bed, though, Rush just heaves a long-suffering sigh and goes back to sleep, curling slightly around Young's side. And, Young thinks, looking down at Rush's face relaxed with sleep, he is forced to revise his opinion again.


	28. "Marry me?"

“Chloe Cecilia Armstrong,” Scott says, getting down on one knee in the middle of the mess hall. Chloe looks shocked and embarrassed and a little happy, as well. Rush is torn between rolling his eyes at the spectacle Scott is making of this all, and feeling mollified by how much this obviously means to Chloe. “Will you please do me the honor...” 

Someone hoots in the background, and Rush is pretty sure it's Eli. Some people laugh, and Scott grins and makes a hand gesture over to whoever made the noise, but Rush's eyes are locked on Chloe. The sheer blush on her cheeks, the soft smile on her face... She really wants this, and it is making Rush remember his own marriage proposal. Or, well, in all reality, Gloria had proposed to _him_. 

“Marry me?” Scott asks, and Chloe reaches out her arms and kisses him and says, “Yes, of course,” and Rush feels his own lips curl up into a smile at the sight of them. 

“Young love,” Young murmurs from beside him, and Rush wants to roll his eyes but he also wants to agree, so he just nods quietly at the man. 

It hasn't been that long since they started this... whatever this is. It's been four months and three days, although Rush would never admit that he keeps count like this. It's been four months and three days, and Young and he are doing remarkably well, together. Perhaps it's because they've already seen the worst of each other. Perhaps it's that neither of them had very high expectations of this thing going into it. Perhaps it's the rather fantastic sex. 

After the congratulations have been exchanged, after Young has declared this an engagement party and Brody has pulled out all the stops at his still, Rush finds himself in Young's quarters, slightly drunk and slightly merrier than usual. 

“He'll be good to her,” Young says, winding his arms around Rush's back. 

“He'd better be,” Rush says, letting his fingers inch into the thick whorls of Young's hair. 

“Shit,” Young chuckles, lowering his face until his forehead rests against Rush's chin. “Does this mean we're gonna be in-laws?” 

Rush feels his own lips quirk up in answer. He supposes they will be, in a way. He's the closest thing Chloe has to a father anymore, and he had been oddly touched when she'd asked him if he would give her away at the wedding. And Scott obviously looks to Young to be a father figure, to the point where it seems slightly unhealthy to Rush. Although he has wisely kept his mouth shut about that, so far. The idea of Young and him as proud fathers, giving away their children to each other, forces a small chuckle out of his chest. “That gives this a vaguely incestuous feeling.” 

Young huffs out a hard breath and gives him an amused look. “Wow, you really know how to set the mood.” 

“You're the one who came up with the whole 'one big family' thing in the first place, Colonel,” Rush says, remembering that toast before they'd all gone into stasis. It had been... interesting, the way that had made him feel. Like he was part of something again, after what felt like a lifetime of being on his own. He leans his face forward until their foreheads are touching, the tips of their noses brushing together. Young's breath against his lips is heady and warm, and inexplicably he feels _safe_ here. With this man. 

Young's hands have slipped under his shirts by now. His fingers are tracing slow, circular patterns over the small of Rush's back. They stand like that for a while, just breathing together, feeling each other without going any further to make it sexual. It's strange how intimate this feels, considering all the filthy things they've done together. 

“She's happy, Rush,” Young says, answering a question Rush didn't ask. 

Rush winds his hands a little tighter into Young's hair. “Yeah,” he says, tipping his face forward to place a soft kiss on the corner of Young's mouth. “I think so, too.” 

He's certain none of this is what twenty-one year old Chloe would have dreamed of for herself. He's also quite certain twenty-six year old Chloe has achieved more than twenty-one year old Chloe ever could have imagined. She has done well, and she will continue doing well. Scott isn't good enough for her, in Rush's opinion, but then he couldn't think of anyone who would be. But Scott is who she chose, and Rush trusts her enough to accept that if she loves him there must be something about him, even if Rush can't quite see it from his vantage point. So Scott will do. 

“You wanna go to bed?” Young asks, placing a small kiss of his own on Rush's bottom lip. 

“Yes,” Rush sighs. He truly does. “Let's go to bed.”


	29. "I thought you were dead."

“Where's the Colonel?” Greer shouts, and Rush is quite certain he doesn't imagine the soul-crushing pain rippling over Eli's face. Destiny is shaking all around them, and she really can't hold on much longer. It's seconds now, a matter of seconds, and when Scott stumbles through the gate with a forlorn look on his face Rush barely has the wherewithal to realize the gate closes. Destiny jumps back into FTL. 

And Young... Young is gone. He's still on the planet, and _fuck_ , they never should have allowed him going there, because now he's fucking _gone_. There's no way he'll hold out against those aliens on his own. Not with only one weapon. Not on his own. Rush feels a strange whooshing sensation surge through him, like he's falling, only not, and there is no way this is about losing Young, is it? There is no way his entire mind is in shambles because he can't deal with the idea of losing Young, because what the fuck _is_ Young to him, even? 

“Eli,” Scott says, and his voice sounds scared and rough with tears. “Did you see him?” 

Eli's face is ashen and clammy, and when he shakes his head Rush somehow cannot accept. As if his brain is rejecting the idea that Young is really gone.

“Rush!” Greer says. “Force a drop. We need to get him back!” 

The arguments why they can't are already piling up in Rush's throat. They will wreck the FTL drive. They will be annihilated by those enemy ships. They will lose the one advantage that they have over these aliens. Instead, all that comes out is a hoarse “I can't.” 

Greer and his gun are in his face before he can even blink, but he knows Greer won't shoot. Not for real. Not even now. “You think I don't want to get him back?” he bites out, and that somehow seems to defeat everyone in the entire room. 

As soon as the refractory period has passed – and despite his and Eli's best attempts, they can't do anything to shorten it – they drop out of FTL and dial back in to the planet. Greer is through the gate first, followed by Scott, and within the minute they dial back to Destiny and drag a still, lifeless Colonel Young through the blue puddle of the wormhole. 

Fuck, he's dead. Young is dead, and there's nothing Rush can do to undo that. The cold, gnarly fingers clenching around his heart feel too much like the Nakai, and suddenly Rush feels like he can't breathe. 

“TJ! We need your help here!” Scott yells, and then it's all kino stretchers and Lieutenant Johansen and a flurry of people sending Young off to the infirmary. 

And, against all odds – against all _logic_ \- it turns out Young _survives_. 

Rush doesn't know what to make of the jittery shakes that keep crawling up his back, starting at the base of his spine and making his entire body tremble with their force. There's also a lump in the back of his throat that feels like he's going to throw up any second now. His palms are sweating. It's been hours, there is no discernible reason why his body should still be in fight-or-flight mode, or shock, or whatever the fuck this is. 

He finds himself in the infirmary at three in the morning, and Christ, for some inexplicable reason laying eyes on Young finally makes his body calm down. 

The lights are dim and Lieutenant Johansen does little more than raise her head from her cot when he enters before going back to sleep, and Young's chest is wrapped in bandages but his face seems relatively unharmed, and God, Rush's mind is all over the place. 

“Rush?” Young's voice is soft and rough with sleep, and Rush feels something slither and twist deep in his belly at the sound of it. “What are you doing here?” 

“I thought you were dead,” he answers, because he can't quite get himself to say anything else. He's starting to put things together now, and fuck, looking at Young's stoic face and his broad frame and his... everything he _is_ ; Young has to be the last person Rush could ever have seen himself fall for. 

Then again, he's also the only one that makes _sense_ on a deep, visceral level. 

Young gives him an uncomprehending look, and blinks sleepily at him. His lips curl up into a slight smile, then, as if to say, 'You care,' and Rush isn't entirely sure why he doesn't stop himself from bending forward and pressing a small, quiet kiss into that smile. 

“Rush?” Young asks again, but he doesn't sound upset as much as he simply sounds confused. 

Rush huffs out a short breath and plops himself down into the chair next to Young's bed. The thought of going back to his own quarters right now, the thought of letting Young out of his sight... it's not what he wants. He'd rather have a stiff back in the morning from sleeping in a chair than go back to making himself crazy with worry over Young. 

“Go to sleep, Colonel,” he says quietly. 

Young is already halfway there.


	30. "It's not what it looks like..."

The timing is amazingly terrible. Or terribly amazing, he still hasn't made up his mind about that. Young is leading him to one of the conference rooms near the bridge because they have to go over the work schedules Camile drafted up for the members of the science team, but all thoughts of work rosters dry up in the back of his skull when Young presses the door control and they're greeted with the sight of Lieutenants Johansen and James locked together in a tight embrace. Hands in loose hair, fingers inching under tank tops, lips open and wet. It makes for a shockingly erotic picture, and Rush has to clamp down on the shocked gasp he wants to let out. 

They jump away from each other almost instantaneously, and Rush feels their flushes mirrored on his own cheeks in sympathetic embarrassment and the unexpected surge or arousal that shoots through him. 

“It's not what it looks like,” James blurts out before straightening her uniform shirt and standing to attention. She seems to be moving mostly on auto-pilot, and a few seconds later her shoulders slump a little. “Er, well...” 

Young's face is an impenetrable mask, which could mean that he's angry, or heartbroken, or turned on beyond belief, or any number of other things, as far as Rush knows. Johansen looks uncomfortable and a little apologetic, which Rush thinks has more to do with her history with Young than with the fact that she is fraternizing with a fellow soldier. 

The silence that falls between them is deafening, and James looks between Johansen and Young nervously as she pulls her hair back and pins it into her usual bun. 

“We are,” Johansen says, swallowing quietly but looking at Young straight on. “We're together, Colonel.” 

James takes a small step closer to her, and Rush wonders if that was subconscious. Christ, he feels like an intruder. His role in this should be nonexistent, but here he is, almost shoulder to shoulder with Young as the two female Lieutenants try to put themselves back together. 

“Yeah,” James says. “Sorry, sir.” 

Young doesn't say anything. He just nods stiffly, and takes a step back from the door opening to let the two women out of the room. James and Johansen step past him and Young quickly, and James looks over at Young almost pleadingly. Johansen is looking at Young, too, and Rush doesn't miss the way she lets the backs of her fingers brush against James' hand. 

Young takes a breath and straightens his shoulders. “Rush and I were just about to discuss some business,” he says, with a small nod at the conference room. “Dismissed.” 

Rush watches James and Johansen make their way out of the corridor quickly, and then turns to Young. The man looks kind of defeated, now, and Rush almost reaches out to put his hand on Young's arm. 

“Did you know?” he asks instead. 

Young gives him a quiet look and rubs his hand over his face. “I think she tried telling me a few weeks back. I thought she was talking about Varro.” 

Rush feels his lips quirk up at that. “I much prefer Lieutenant James for her.” 

Young is finally starting to look like his usual self again, shock and confusion tucked neatly away behind that stoic facade of imperturbable calm. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “I think I do, too.” 

“So,” Rush says, walking into the conference room at last. “We should go over those schedules.” 

Young follows behind him and sits down in one of the chairs. He starts arranging his papers as Rush opens his laptop.

Halfway through their meeting, Young casts him a glance that makes something twist deep in Rush's belly, and for a second or two he allows himself the fantasy of Young coming closer, of Young pushing into his space and pulling him in for a kiss. To get even with Lieutenant Johansen, perhaps. Or to mark this room as theirs. Or simply because watching two beautiful young women groping and licking and getting lost in each other fanned the flames of desire for both of them. 

Young doesn't, though. Of course he doesn't. And Rush hardly thinks this is the best time to invite him to. 

But, he thinks, as Young brushes his shoulder against him to read something off his laptop screen... But there _is_ something happening between them. 

He's getting more and more certain that this attraction isn't one-sided after all.


	31. "You lied to me."

“Colonel Young?” Rush asks, feeling oddly nervous about being alone in the control interface room with the man now that his team has left for the bridge. 

Young looks... well, he looks like he does too often – tired and beaten down and pissed off. Rush doesn't know how to read Young when he's like this. Doesn't know what to do to make that little wrinkle between his eyebrows disappear. By now he's given up hope on ever figuring it out; Young is an enigma that Rush can't ever quite solve, no matter how much he tries to wrap himself around it and untangle it from the outside in. 

“You lied to me,” Young says, after an excruciating silence. 

“Ah,” Rush says, unwilling to give Young anything more. Young isn't wrong, of course, although Rush is quite sure he hasn't kept any secrets big enough to warrant the kind of anger that Young showed him after discovering the bridge. 

“That's it?” Young asks, inflection so goddamn neutral it makes something stutter nervously in the back of Rush's throat. “You're hiding so many things from me you're not even sure which one I'm referring to now?” 

“Well, I don't see what right you have to any of my personal secrets, Colonel. Much as I know you'd like to entitle yourself to any sense of privacy I could ask for.” 

Young snorts out something of an angry laugh as he rolls his eyes. “Right, because _I'm_ the dick in this scenario.” 

Rush doesn't dignify that with a response. 

“Well, let me make it easier for you then, Rush,” Young says. “You lied to me about the damn seedship on our course.”

And, oh. Privately, Rush thinks this is more of a temporary omission than a full-out lie – he simply hadn't gotten around to _telling_ Young yet, because he hadn't determined whether it would be worth sending the whole ship into turmoil about the possibility of dialing back to Earth. 

“There's no way to know if that's what it actually is, yet. It could be a number of things. It could be a blip in the systems.”

Young barks out a harsh laugh. “Bullshit. If Park can find it it in the database, _you_ sure as hell already did.” 

“Colonel,” Rush says, trying to reason with the man. “It is still months away. I planned to tell you when I found out more about it.” 

“Were you?” Young asks, with a calculating stare. “Or were you going to look for a way to avoid the seedship altogether, without anyone knowing it was even there?” 

Rush bristles, but even he has to admit that it's a legitimate question. That _was_ one of the options he'd been contemplating. “We desperately need more parts and spares, why the fuck would I do that?” 

And Jesus, Young's face is irritating. He just wants to knock that knowing look off it. “Because we might be able to dial Earth if the seedship has the energy reserves to help us power it.” 

And fine. _Fine_. Fuck Young, and fuck this. “What do you want me to say, Colonel?” he asks, resigning himself to whatever punishment Young has in store for him now. Probably another beating, because the man is nothing if not consistent. 

“Rush,” Young sighs, shaking his head and lowering it in exasperation. “I seriously don't understand why you do these things. You know I'm not planning on going back to Earth. You know I'll stay behind with you. You could've just told me.” 

And it is unexpected, the way that makes him feel. Because he _hadn't_ known, not with any kind of certainty, that Young would stay behind. It sets something aflutter deep in his chest, to hear Young say it so simply. 

“Everyone else might still leave,” he admits, to his own surprise. He shouldn't have said that, because now he feels vulnerable and raw, and Young... he can't trust Young with that kind of power over him. 

“Some people have families, people they love back on Earth. If they want to go home, I'm going to do everything in my power to make that happen, Rush. But there are a lot of people who want to be here, now. It's not like it was that first year anymore. We have a goal, a mission.” Young is speaking in hushed tones, stepping closer to him carefully like he's a skittish colt and Young is afraid to spook him. 

“...Colonel,” Rush says, but he hears the question underneath it. Hears the plea for Young to make him believe that this will actually turn out alright. His heart is racing, blood thrumming loudly in his ears, because Young is really close now, and this feels like standing on the precipice of something that could unmake him forever. 

“Why the hell do you have to make everything so difficult?” Young asks, but there is little heat in the words, and then he presses forward until their lips meet. Rush doesn't know whether he's stunned or whether he has been waiting for this for longer than he can remember, but there really is only one thing to do now anyway. 

He kisses back.


	32. "I think I'm in love with you, and I'm terrified."

“ _Rush_ ,” Young groans deep into the skin of Rush's throat. “God, I'm gonna...” 

“Yeah,” Rush says back, voice raw, fingers curling into Young's shoulders to get a better grip. “ _Fuck_ , me too.” 

A few deep thrusts, harried, frenzied, until the rhythm is lost, and then they're both coming, following each other over the edge into bliss and oblivion. 

They lie together, panting, _heaving_ , until Rush untangles himself and grabs the rag from the nightstand to wipe himself off. When he's done he moves over to gently scrape the soft fabric over Young's skin until he, too, is clean again. 

“Thanks,” Young murmurs quietly, rolling onto his side to trace a nonsensical pattern over Rush's chest with his fingertips. It's calming, and it's tender, and when Young leans a little closer to press a soft kiss against the skin of his arm, it feels like something breaks inside of Rush's chest. Because this is not just fucking out their frustrations anymore. This is not simply sex to make them feel alive after another near-death encounter with hostile aliens. This is not even sleeping together to banish the loneliness that creeps up on them late at night. 

No, the way Young is touching him right now, sleepy and slow and not with the slightest intent to arouse, only to _feel_... Shit. 

_Fuck_ , he's fallen into this without even realizing it was happening – and how could he be so blind? - because now Young feels important to the point where the idea of losing him makes Rush's blood run cold. 

Abruptly, Rush turns to his side, away from Young and his smooth fingertips and his soft lips. Jesus Christ, how could he have been so stupid? How could he have let this happen? 

“Rush?” Young asks, drowsiness clear in his voice. His hand lands carefully on Rush's arm, and Rush wants to slap it away as much as he wants to turn back around and bury himself into Young's warmth, into his affection. Fuck, he can't... he can't do this. He can't be in fucking _love_. Not with Young. Not now. Not here. 

He feels a sudden lump in his throat, and his heart is racing, and then Young moves a bit closer and his voice is full of concern when he says, “Hey, Rush? You okay?” and Rush feels tears prickling behind his eyelids. Jesus, how is this a normal response to _anything_?

He wants to tell Young to go away, but his voice refuses to come out, and when Young slowly eases his body to curl up behind him – chest a warm weight against Rush's naked back, legs slotting in gently behind his – it's all he can do not to fall apart and cry into the hollow of his own elbow. Young seems to understand that he doesn't want to talk right now, and Rush is grateful when he simply wraps his arm around Rush's stomach and nuzzles into the back of his neck. 

They lie like that for a long time, and Rush thinks Young has actually fallen asleep, which is why he startles a little when Young presses a soft kiss against the skin of his neck before asking, “What's wrong?” 

And the thing is, nothing had been wrong before tonight. He'd had Destiny, and his maths, and people who were intent on helping him complete the mission, and Young in his bed whenever he wanted him. His life had been good and uncomplicated and _his_ , and now everything feels like it's been skewed to the side, because now there's _Young_ \- and what if one day he isn't there anymore?

“Rush,” Young says again, and there's genuine worry in his voice now. “Come on, what happened? Did I... Was it me?” 

Young is always so careful with him, ever since they started this thing – like he's scared his bull-in-a-china-shop thing is going to hurt Rush somehow, like Rush wouldn't be able to handle everything Young could possibly do to him – and that should really have tipped him off a long time ago that this was a terrible idea. Because Young is sweet, and Young is caring, and Young pays attention to what Rush needs, and Rush should have realized that it would be impossible to keep thinking of Young as the hard, tough bastard that had left him behind on that planet, or the weak, broken man that had nearly crumbled under the weight of his losses before being tested by Destiny. He should have realized there was no way he was ever going to keep this thing between them simply physical, because he doesn't _work_ like that. And even if he did, Young's kind touches wouldn't have let him. 

“I think I'm in love with you,” Rush says quietly, and his voice sounds thick and strained, and his accent comes out too strongly. ' _And I'm terrified_ ,' his mind supplies unhelpfully. 

“Rush,” Young says, like somehow he understands everything Rush is trying to tell him perfectly, and it's like every time he says Rush's name it means something completely different. His voice is soft, now, warm and happy and _touched_ , and Rush can too easily imagine it meaning 'I feel the same way,' and none of this is what he had imagined for himself when he first dragged Young's face in for a heated kiss all those months ago. 

“I _could_ go on without you,” Rush says as he turns around, and he hopes it isn't a lie, because right now he's not quite certain of that fact. Young smiles at him like he can hear his thoughts and rubs his fingers over Rush's jaw soothingly. 

“You won't have to,” he answers, and Rush is ridiculously grateful when Young doesn't wait for him to answer but simply moves forward to capture his lips in a searing kiss. 

' _Maybe he's right_ ,' Rush thinks wildly, surging into Young's touch, into Young's lips, with a violent passion. Because he's thrown everything he could think of at the Colonel, and Young is still standing. 

Perhaps he should believe Young will survive anything the universe can throw at him, too. 

Because if there's one man who can, it's probably Young.


	33. "Please don't do this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what happened, but I went full on spider!AU for this one.

Young feels his entire body spring into action when the thin thread trills quickly. It's instinct more than anything, because it's not even dusk yet and he knows it's most likely a dud, but he still climbs down the thickest lines to the source of the vibrations. 

It's a mosquito, fragile and thin and completely stuck in his web, and his fangs start wettening at the thought of wrapping it up in his silk and sucking the soft flesh out of it already. Young approaches it carefully. It won't do any good to let it escape by accidentally cutting one of the thin strings of web that has entrapped it.

“Don't!” the mosquito says, panic high in its voice. “Please don't do this.” 

Young pauses. 

“Wait,” he says, slightly confused. “You can speak?” 

“Of course I can bloody speak,” the mosquito says, trying frantically to get itself unwrapped from Young's sticky web. It looks like it might hurt itself soon. 

“Stop struggling,” Young says, not making any move to get closer to the mosquito than he already is. “You're going to rip off a wing if you keep doing that.” 

“I'll take losing a wing over being eaten by a goddamn spider, if you don't mind,” the mosquito bites out, continuing its frenzied movements. 

Young snorts. The mosquito will be as good as dead without its wings. The only reason why losing a wing would seem preferable to being eaten seems to be pure spite. 

“Cut it out, will you?” he says, letting his front leg touch softly against the mosquito's thorax. “What's your name?” 

“What,” the mosquito says. “You like being on a first name basis with your dinner?” 

Young feels a surge of exasperated amusement flow through him. “Well,” he says. “This would be more like lunch.” 

The mosquito just lets out an irritated sound and continues struggling. 

“I'm Young,” Young says, reaching out another leg and cutting a piece of the sticky string that is keeping the mosquito in place. “I'm not gonna eat you. Relax.” 

The mosquito whisks its antennae over to him, as if to feel him out. “Why not?” 

“I generally prefer to eat non-sentient lifeforms,” Young says dryly, pulling another piece of web off the mosquito. Its wings are still fluttering, but not with the same kind of hardheaded insistence of before. It almost seems more like a reflex than an actual conscious move, now. 

“You're letting me go?” the mosquito asks, sounding hopeful and disbelieving all at once. 

Young simply cuts the last bits of web off the mosquito. As soon as it's free, it immediately flies away. It buzzes nearer again, a few minutes later, perching on a ledge of stone that doesn't have any of his web on it. 

“Why?” it asks. 

He's not entirely sure how to answer that. In all honesty, it would have made more sense to eat the mosquito. He has no insurance that another meal will fly its way into his web any time soon. 

“It's not like I have that many opportunities for decent conversation,” Young says eventually. The mosquito makes an agreeable sound. 

“Can't really argue with that,” it says, before flying away again. 

Young wonders if he should have just eaten it instead. 

The next evening, though, the mosquito is back. 

“Rush,” it says, after an awkward pause. “My name is Rush. And the structural integrity of your web would be improved if you'd add another radial between those second and third viscid threads.”


	34. "If you keep looking at me like that we won't make it to a bed."

The ship lurches and everything shifts roughly to the left as the burst of Destiny's engines careens them gracefully into FTL again. 

They're safe. They got away from that unexpected alien attack, and Young feels his sigh of relief mirrored in everyone on the bridge. 

“We made it,” Rush says from his console. Young's eyes stick onto him like he's made of more than just flesh and bones. Like he's a magnet and Young is nothing but a pile of iron shavings caught too close to his pull. 

“Damage?” he asks, more on autopilot than because he actually realizes it's an important question right now. 

“We're good. Nothing that needs our immediate attention,” Rush says quickly. He looks just as exulted as Young feels. A hard shiver works its way up Young's back, because he knows how Rush gets after these kinds of near-death experiences, and his cock is 100% on board with it already. 

“A small hull breach,” Eli adds. “But it's in one of the uninhabitable areas anyway. Nothing we can't fix.” 

“Alright,” Young hears himself say. “Well done, everyone.” 

As the high-pitched sounds of relieved anxiety and joyful celebration twitter out around him, he gets up from the captain's chair and moves over to Rush. 

“Impressive move, back there,” he says amiably, before lowering his volume so no one else can hear him. “My quarters tonight?” 

Rush just gives him a look that is both exasperated and as much of a 'yes' as he ever gets from the man, and he already knows Rush will let him do whatever he wants tonight. Rush will let Young open him up, fully affirm Rush is _his_ , and he will moan like a whore the whole time Young does it. 

Fuck, he wishes their shift didn't last another two hours. 

When he is back in his chair, going over the damage reports Eli sent him and approving the adjustments to their course that Rush and Chloe are working on, his eyes keep flicking over to Rush. Rush looks wholly preoccupied with his console right now, and damn, ever since they started this thing between them Young can't help but think it is a thing of beauty. Well, that's not entirely truthful. He'd been having these thoughts for a long time before he'd finally gotten up the courage to tell Rush he'd be open to a more... physical relationship. 

Rush had laughed, when he'd said that, and it had made the blood curdle in his veins. But then he'd taken Young's face in his hands and yanked him in for a hard kiss, and it had felt like time had started moving again. 

It's only been six weeks, but already it feels like everything has somehow settled between them. Like all the bad things they've done to each other have faded to the background and all that matters is the huge, unexplored potential between them. God, he wants Rush in every possible way. He wants Rush to cling to him when it's cold, and he wants Rush to shelter him when things get hard, and he wants Rush to fall in love with him and beg him to never leave. He also wants to fuck Rush, artless as that sounds. A lot. 

He doesn't realize he's been staring until Rush gets up from his seat and saunters over to him. “Colonel,” he says, leaning casually over Young's console. His voice is soft and warm, and Young is pretty sure no one else on the bridge can hear them. “If you keep looking at me like that, we won't make it to a bed.” 

And Jesus, how is he supposed to react to that? He feels flustered and annoyed and much too aroused, and Rush smirks at him like he can read it all on his face. Like it's exactly what he hoped to achieve with his little comment. 

Young schools his face and pushes his embarrassment to the back of his mind before moving closer to where Rush is leaning. “Who said anything about a bed, Rush?” he answers in a low growl, and Rush's face is something he will etch into his memory, because it's beautiful. 

The rest of their shift passes in a swirl of unimportant drudgery, and when Rush finally enters his quarters Young is ready. He's been waiting for this for hours, and Rush looks like he feels the exact same way, and by the time he has Rush bent over his desk and groaning into his own elbow, Young knows this thing between them is far from over.


	35. "You heard me. Take. It. Off."

“Rush,” Young says, closing the door behind him. Rush is sitting on his couch like he owns it. Like this is something that happens all the time. Like having Rush in his quarters isn't something that always makes Young's heartbeat spike with adrenaline and fear and the despicable desire to overwhelm the man, to push him up against a wall and just _take_ him until he gives in and goes along with it. 

“Colonel,” Rush answers, and his voice is settling into that purr that makes Young's skin crawl and his dick twitch. “I've been waiting for you to come.” 

God, what the hell did he do to deserve this? Rush has been doing this for weeks now, making one suggestive comment after another, and Young doesn't know what it's supposed to accomplish at all, but it makes him feel nervous and off-kilter – and maybe that's the whole point of it? 

“You need to stop,” he says, voice tight and face empty. 

“Stop what?” Rush says, getting up from the couch and moving over to Young. He doesn't stop walking until he's too close, he's way into Young's personal space, and Young isn't sure whether he'd rather shove him away or pull him in by his too long goddamn hair. Is this payback for all those times Young crowded into Rush's space? For all those times he used physical proximity to make the man back down?

“This,” Young says, gesturing at the lack of space between them. “Whatever the hell this is.” 

“I've no idea what you're talking about, Colonel,” Rush says, feigning innocence like the best of them, and goddammit, Young has _had_ it. 

“You know what? Fine.” Young lets his hand reach up to grasp Rush's chin, and pulls his face closer to his own. “Take off the vest.” 

Rush blinks, jerking back a little and raising his eyebrows. He actually seems kind of bewildered by the sudden turn of events. “What?” 

“You heard me,” Young says darkly. The time for playing is over. If this is what Rush wants – and Young's pretty sure that that is what all this teasing has been about – then this is what he gets. “Take. It. Off.” 

“Colonel,” Rush says, backtracking now, and Young feels like he's finally got the upper hand after weeks of being tortured by Rush. It feels good. 

“Don't make me say it again, Rush,” he says, folding his hands behind his back. “Get undressed, or get out.” 

For some reason, despite the sudden flush high up on Rush's cheeks, it still surprises him when Rush lowers his eyes and starts unbuttoning his vest. Rush isn't leaving. Rush is dropping items of clothing, stepping out of his shoes, until he's in nothing but his white t-shirt and his underwear, and then he stops. He casts Young a wary glance. 

“You're not going to undress?” he asks. Young feels the corner of his mouth quirk up in response. Rush made his life a living hell for the past three weeks. Some payback would only be fair. 

“I'm not going to do anything tonight,” Young says, wandering over to the edge of his bed and sitting down on it before working his shoes off. “You can suck my cock, if you want. But that's it.” 

Rush makes a noise that might be an objection and that might be a bitten-off moan. “...What about me?” he asks quietly, after a few seconds of silence. He looks oddly demure, and Young feels something jitter right under his breastbone at the idea that yeah, Rush _does_ want this. Despite himself, judging from his contradicting facial expressions. 

Young lies back on the bed and unzips his jacket before folding his arms behind his head. “If you do a good job, I might let you come.” He keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling above him, feigning indifference to the way Rush's breath hitches at his words. “Now take off your clothes and get to it.”


	36. "I wish I could hate you."

“You,” Rush says, and he can't believe he's been this goddamn stupid. He _knew_ Young, he _knew_ the fucking prick, and yet he still let himself trust the man. He hadn't even realized how serious he was about that until just now, until Young confessed to him. “You are such a fucking piece of shit.”

Young doesn't say anything. He just looks to the side, guilty and unhappy. 

“I don't even know why this shocks me. I _knew_ the kind of man you are.” 

“Rush,” Young says, but he doesn't say anything to contradict him. He doesn't get mad, he just looks sad. His brow is furrowed and the corners of his mouth point downwards and he seems all-around miserable. Rush hates himself for still wanting to wipe that look off his face, despite the fact that Young is a bloody cheating bastard. “I'm sorry, okay? I screwed up. What can I do to make it right?” 

Rush lets out a harsh laugh. “Well, for starters you could stop fucking other people.” 

Finally, a flare of anger flits over Young's face. “I didn't—” Then he seems to realize that is _not_ the discussion they should be having right now, and cuts himself off. “Rush, we had that huge fight, I thought we were over. I was drunk. I made a mistake. It won't happen again.” 

“Which part?” Rush bites out. “The fighting? The drinking? The letting someone suck you off?” 

Young just shakes his head and looks away again. 

“Who was it?” Rush asks, suddenly needing to know more than anything. 

Young gives him an unreadable look and folds his hands together in front of his body. He looks like he's getting ready to stand in front of a firing squad. “One of the scientists. Anderson.” 

Rush feels an unreasonable amount of hate for the dark-haired woman surge through him. It's not _her_ fault Young can't keep his prick to himself. She doesn't even know about him and Young. Still, he wants to break something that is precious to her. 

“Is that what you want, then? A woman? Because you could have saved us both a lot of time if you'd made that clear sooner.” 

“No,” Young says, and the conviction in his voice is almost enough to convince Rush. “I don't want her. I don't want anyone else. I just want you, you know that.” 

“You have a funny way of showing it, Colonel,” Rush says. He wishes his voice didn't sound so broken. 

“You told me we were done,” Young says. “I was...” Rush wonders how he was going to finish that sentence. Hurt? Scared? Angry? “It's not an excuse, but I never meant to cheat on you.” 

Rush feels a hard spike of fury pierce his stomach. This is _not_ his fault. They always fight hard, even if they've gone from physical skirmishes to verbal ones. Young has no right to put this on _him_. 

“Maybe I should go out and fuck someone else, too?” he sneers. “Make us even.” He has half a mind to actually do it. Get someone completely unlike Young in every way to touch him and kiss him and make him come, just to get back at Young. 

Young's frown deepens but he doesn't say anything, and Rush realizes that even if he wanted to do it - simply to hurt Young - he can't. The thought of anyone's hands on him, anyone who isn't Young, makes his skin crawl. God, he hates himself. How could he have let things get this far? 

“I fucking...” Rush looks away, balls his fists at his sides. “I wish I could hate you.” 

It's a lie. The real wish, the best thing that he could possibly ask for right now, is indifference. To stop _caring_. Hate is just as extreme as love. It's just as exhausting and dangerous and time-consuming. No, indifference, that is what he should wish for. To just have Young be another random military grunt. Another faceless drone who comes in handy as often as he gets in the way of his mission. 

“Rush,” Young says, and it shocks Rush a little, how much emotion there is on his face. He looks to be on the verge of tears. “Please tell me I can still fix this.” 

Rush shakes his head, not in answer, but because he can't do this right now. He needs to get away, Young needs to leave, and he needs to think this over in private. 

“I don't know,” he says eventually. 

“I'm sorry,” Young says again, seemingly because he can't think of anything else to say. He looks like he's in pain, like _he's_ the one whose trust has been broken, and Rush isn't sure whether he wants to cry or to hit him. 

He wants to do both. He takes a deep breath and refuses to do either. 

“You should go.” 

Young doesn't plead with him. He doesn't try to prolong this horrible conversation. He simply gives Rush a defeated nod and turns away to palm the door control. As the door to his room closes, Rush listens to his heavy footsteps receding from his quarters. When Young is out of earshot, when he is finally alone again, he curls up on his bed and shuts out the rest of the world and tries to believe he doesn't need Young enough to eventually forgive him for this.


	37. "Wanna dance?"

Young takes another sip of his drink and smiles at the way everyone around him seems to be having a good time. Chloe and Eli had come to him a few months back, asking to throw a birthday party for Scott, and somehow those first few disastrous tries had turned into this Monthly Birthday Bash – as Eli had dubbed it. There are generally at least one or two birthdays every week, and celebrating all of them individually is just not feasible. So instead they celebrate like this, and these parties have somehow become the highlight of the month for a lot of people. A night of music and booze and dancing until the early morning. And while Young's participation has been quite reserved compared to some of the others, he finds himself enjoying these nights nonetheless. Even Rush showed up tonight, possibly because Eli kept pestering him about this being _his_ party too, since it was his birthday this month. Young feels content to see all the happy faces around him. 

“Hey,” he says, handing Rush a cup of Brody's finest. “Happy birthday. Well... birthmonth, I guess.” 

Rush takes the cup with something that actually approximates a smile, and nods at him. “Thanks, I suppose.” 

“It's good that you came,” Young says over the loud music. It's some kind of pop number he's never heard before, but the beat is nice, and there's a minimal use of auto-tune that Young can appreciate. “Good for morale.” 

Rush snorts. Although Young can't hear it, he can see it clearly. “Somehow I doubt my presence makes much of a difference to this lot.” 

Young smiles. It's not true – he knows Eli and Chloe were ecstatic to see Rush turn up here, for one, but that's not even what made him say it. The alcohol is singing through his veins, making everything seem kind of easier, kind of lighter. “It makes a difference to me.” 

Rush gives him a slightly disbelieving look, and takes another deep drag of his cup. 

“So,” Young says, feeling giddy and happy and slightly nervous. “Wanna dance?”

Rush huffs out a loud breath, and shakes his head at him. “I think not.” 

“Okay,” Young shrugs. Like he ever expected Rush to say yes. “We can just hang out here.” 

Rush eyes him quietly, and Young feels an odd sense of nervousness tickle at the back of his throat now. Because Rush always sees too much, and maybe he'll see... Then again, what does it matter if he does? It's not like he's going to hate Young for it. If he can forgive being left to die, he can forgive a little inappropriate attraction. 

The music changes to a slower song, and Young wonders what would have happened if Rush had said yes to his proposition. Would they have awkwardly slid together to sway to the music like most of the people around him are doing? The image of slow-dancing with Rush calls up a chuckle from deep within his belly – and he'll probably encounter that scenario in one of his future dreams, because those seem to focus on Rush and implausible ideas a lot, lately. 

“Colonel,” Rush says, almost too quiet to be heard over the heartfelt ballad blaring over the intercom system. “Wouldn't you rather go somewhere else?” 

For a split second Young thinks Rush is asking him to leave him alone, but then Rush empties his drink and refuses to look at him, and he realizes Rush is asking him to leave _with_ him, and holy crap. For all that he's been fantasizing about this, he's not nearly ready for the practical reality of it. 

“Uh,” he says eloquently. “Yeah. Yes.” 

Rush gives him a look that might be amused, although Young has a hard time telling right now. “Corridor. Two minutes.” 

Young nods, throat suddenly feeling dry, and watches Rush wander off to Brody's makeshift bar. It looks like... he has no idea if Rush simply wants to talk, or if he wants to use this as an excuse to leave the party, or if he is expecting them to have sex, and he knocks back his drink quickly as he tries to keep his imagination from building this up too much in his head. 

He leaves his empty cup on one of the small tables and slips out of the room. 

Barely half a minute later Rush joins him. He's holding a bottle, and Young realizes he's talked Brody into giving him some liquor because he wants to continue drinking with Young elsewhere. The thought makes something spike hard in his stomach. 

He kind of wants to ask Rush where he's planning on going, but Rush just gives him a look and starts walking. Young has no real choice but to follow. 

When they end up in his quarters, when Rush pours him a drink, when Rush climbs on top of him and drags him in for a heated kiss... Again, Young has no real choice but to follow.


	38. “You fainted... straight into my arms.”

Fuck. Shit. There is something really fucking wrong with him, because his heart is racing and his thoughts keep going in tight little circles and this _thing_ he'd eaten had seemed like the best piece of fruit he'd ever tasted because it was sweet and juicy and it had given him a head-rush that reminded him of caffeine but much stronger, but now he's crashing and his thoughts keep going in tight little circles and _shit_. 

“Rush?” Young asks, and how had he not realized Young was talking to him? Black spots dance in his vision but he can still easily make out Young's concerned face. He wants to tell Young it must be the fruit he ate, but instead he can't stop trying to blink the stars in his vision away. It's only making them multiply. 

“Rush, are you okay?” 

'I'm fine,' he wants to say. Not because it's true, but because he wants to say it. Instinct, perhaps. Don't show your soft underbelly to the predator. His mouth feels dry as cotton, and he's not sure how he got here again. He doesn't say he's fine, because his vocal cords and his brain aren't cooperating. Instead, he grips tightly at Young's sleeve, and then everything goes dark. 

When he wakes up, he's in the infirmary and his brain feels woolly and barely responsive. 

“Hi,” Lieutenant Johansen says, in a strange parody of the first time he found himself in her infirmary. “You had a reaction to something you ate on the planet.” 

She looks up at the door opening, and only now can Rush hear it, too. The heavy tread of Colonel Young's boots on the metal deck plating. It always inspires a tiny flare of... of _something_ in his gut. He used to think it was fear, survival instinct, but he's not entirely sure that's it, anymore. He follows Johansen's gaze to the open corridor, and watches Young walk in. Sturdy and confident and broad. After everything the man has been through, Rush still hasn't decided whether all of that is a front or whether it actually might be true now. 

“He just woke up,” Johansen says to Young, and Rush watches with something that might be apprehension and might be something else as Young steps closer to his bed. He moves to sit up, because having Young look down on him while he lies all weak and pathetic in a hospital bed is not acceptable, and then has to desperately attempt to conceal how it makes his head spin. “He should be fine,” Johansen says. “A bit wobbly, but fine. I want to give him something for his head, but I'm out of aspirin leaf. Can you keep an eye on him while I run down to hydroponics?”

“Sure,” Young says, and Rush leans his back against the wall and quickly runs his hand through his stringy hair. Johansen's footsteps recede until she's out of earshot, and Young sits down on the stool next to Rush's bedside. 

“Hey. How're you feeling?” 

“What happened?” Rush asks, because he can remember bits and pieces, and all he knows with full certainty is that his brain was spurting and stuttering before he blacked out, and that Young's face had been there, large in his vision. 

“You fainted... straight into my arms.” Young's lips quirk up and he lets out an amused breath. “You know, if you wanted my attention you didn't have to go to such extremes.” 

The harsh retort in Rush's mind dies a painful death on his lips as he's entirely unable to form the right words at the moment. Because he _does_ want Young's attention, even if this is not the way he'd choose to go about it. Not at all. 

He simply looks at Young, strong and silent and somehow everything he wants despite the fact that at one point Young had been more willing to let him die than to find a way to work with him towards the same goal. 

“Rush?” Young asks, and now he seems almost insecure. “I was just joking.” 

They both know that's a lie, but neither of them says anything to contradict it. 

“I'm tired,” Rush says. He means more than it sounds like. Young just looks at him with that sad, twisted smile and raises his hand to push back a few locks of hair that have fallen into Rush's face again. 

“You can sleep. I'll keep an eye on you.” 

It shouldn't mean as much as it does. It shouldn't _work_. But still Rush finds himself nodding weakly as he lets his head roll back against the wall. 

He can sleep here, now. He can rest for a bit, because Young is looking over him, and somehow that means he feels safe.


	39. "Hey! I was going to eat that!"

He and Young are sitting at a table in the mess hall. Eli and Chloe right next to them, Greer and Scott at the rear end, and Rush oddly feels like he belongs, here. Like he somehow managed to become part of this military/civilian match-up that Young has been working towards all this time. 

“Oh my God,” Eli says blissfully. “That raspberry thing is _unbelievable_.” 

It's been grown in the lab. There will be more. And Eli is right, it _is_ unbelievably good. So Rush doesn't hesitate to spear his fork through Young's and pop it into his mouth. 

“Hey!” Young says, sounding uncharacteristically high-pitched and oddly happy through all the indignation. “I was going to eat that!” 

“Hmm,” Rush answers, chewing on the succulent berry with a nonchalant shrug. “I thought you didn't want it.” 

Young's hand shoots across the table and clamps down hard on Rush's wrist. Much too late, as usual. “You have the worst idea of what I _want_ , Rush.” 

It's probably the physical contact that makes his heartbeat spike and his mouth turn dry. It's not that Young is alluding to something he's only ever let himself think of when he is right at the brink of bringing himself to orgasm. 

“Whoa,” Eli says, obviously reading the situation as something that might devolve into fistfights and unnecessary drama. Rush isn't even entirely sure if Eli's wrong; he has a hard time predicting Young's future moves at the best of times. “I'm sure Becker has a few back-ups around.” 

Chloe just looks down at their entwined hands with a hint of amusement at the corner of her lips, before taking another bite of her dinner. 

“You'd better hope so, Rush,” Young says darkly, but the amusement in his voice is hard to miss. Even Eli seems to understand that this is closer to flirting than fighting, and the boy looks away with an awkward cast to his face. 

Greer and Scott just burst into uncontrolled laughter at the scene in front of them, and Rush feels himself pull away from Young's grip before turning back to his dinner. He's feeling slightly embarrassed, but it doesn't feel anything like the humiliation he'd suffered back when he was in Oxford. This isn't bullying as much as it is teasing, and he can be okay with that. It's just... something he'll have to get used to, he supposes. He's gotten used to worse. 

“TJ said they might have aphrodisiac qualities,” Chloe says, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of vegetable. She looks wholly innocent as she says it, but Rush knows she's fully aware she's just adding fuel to the fire. “Eating more than one might be dangerous.” 

“Well,” Young says, pushing his foot between Rush's legs until he can feel the warmth of Young's calf bleed heavily into his own. “Someone better keep an eye on Doctor Rush over here, then. Wouldn't want him getting overheated.” 

Rush feels his heart-rate double, but he's reasonably sure his face doesn't betray anything as he says, “There's a point where spying on me via kino starts looking like more than just professional interest, Colonel.” 

Young's lips quirk up in answer. They both know he hasn't had any kinos on Rush for a long time, now. “Is there?” 

He doesn't quite know how to answer that, so he just spears another piece of protein-slush-covered vegetable on his fork and looks away as he brings it to his mouth. 

He also doesn't quite know how he finds himself in front of Young's quarters, later that night. 

“Rush?” Young says, moving away to let Rush inside his room with such ease that Rush doesn't know why they haven't done this before. “What's up?” 

Rush swallows thickly and lets his treacherous body lean in close enough for Young to touch as the man closes the door. “You said you wanted someone to keep an eye on me,” he says, fingers already itching with the desire to pull Young closer. To feel the rough fabric of the Colonel's uniform against him, feel the warm skin underneath it turn sweaty and heated. 

“Well,” Young murmurs. The low rumble of his voice makes Rush's dick twitch with anticipation, because obviously Young is as much on board with this as he is. “ _Someone_ should.”


	40. “Have I entered an alternate universe or did you really just crack a smile for me?”

“Jesus,” Young groans, after Volker and Eli have ambled out of earshot. “They're like a bunch of goddamn children. I don't know how you stand it.” 

Rush can't help but agree. They _are_ like a bunch of children, as they just demonstrated by being drawn away from their work by the news that one of the teams on the planet had found plants with leaves that 'Kinda resemble bubble wrap', as Scott had put it.

“I've heard Eli refer to us,” he says, gesturing between Young and himself, “As the parents of the ship.” 

Young groans, letting his head dip into his palm as he shakes it. “Damn it. I'm the mom, aren't I?” 

Rush feels his lips quirk up in answer, because Young is kind of adorable. It's also because he suspects Young is right. 

“Rush?” Young says, sounding amused and inquisitive at the same time. “Have I entered an alternate universe, or did you really just crack a smile for me?” 

“It must be your imagination,” Rush answers, drawing away from the conversation and bending over his console again. Like Young isn't aware there is very little of interest happening on his monitor right now. 

“Hm,” Young says, sounding entirely unconvinced. 

They work in silence for nearly half an hour before Brody and Volker re-enter the bridge. 

“There's a ton of interesting stuff down there,” Volker says excitedly. “You should really check it out.” 

Rush looks over at Young, who gives him a discreet little smile. “You've got everything here covered?” Young asks, and Brody nods seriously from behind his console. Young turns over to Rush and raises his eyebrows in question. “You wanna?” 

Of course Rush does, because sitting here and keeping an eye on the proceedings is boring him to tears. 

So they make it down to the planet, six hours on the clock, and rather than join in on the food and medicine gathering, Young nudges him to come explore a trail that has been trampled into the flourishing wildlife by the other people who have been trekking into the wild jungle to find fruits and vegetables since stepping through the gate. 

Rush follows without argument, it's not as if he was particularly enthusiastic about collecting edibles here when there are obviously plenty of people doing that already. He watches Young's back, his shoulders, as he keeps branches of leaves and thistles away from them both, and wonders what the man would be like in bed. He already knows Young is strong – he's experienced the man's strength in less than pleasurable ways more than once. But he also seems like he'd be careful, like he'd take his partner's pleasure very seriously, and Rush feels his heart skip a beat at the idea of Young touching him gently, asking him for permission before feeling his way into desire and openness and a type of bliss that Rush can only guess at. He wonders if Young ever has the same thoughts about him. Probably not. He's still not entirely sure where his own thoughts even stem from. Young is not... not quite his usual type, to say the least. 

“Where are you going?” Rush asks, not acknowledging the fact that he's following Young without question into the darker parts of the rain forest. 

“I have no idea,” Young says, giving him a short grin that makes him look ten years younger. “Maybe we'll find some of those bubble wrap plants? I just thought we'd take a look around.” 

And perhaps this is why. Perhaps finding their way into something that resembles friendship so closely it's become impossible to make the distinction anymore is why his mind keeps wandering to Young's lips and his hands and those amused, dark eyes. 

A small smile worms its way onto Rush's lips, because the thought that he'd somehow managed to become friends with Colonel Everett Young, of all people, is oddly hilarious as much as it makes something warm glow in his chest. 

And maybe, he thinks, as Young's gaze flicks down to his mouth and then up to his eyes again, his own lips quirking up in answer. Maybe Young feels the same way.


	41. "You did all of this for me?"

“Colonel,” he says, not quite pulling his hand away but making it clear he is not in the mood for this. “I don't feel like—” 

“Rush,” Young says, and his tone of voice is just quiet enough, just gentle enough, that Rush finds himself listening despite himself. “Please, come on. Just... humor me, okay?” 

He doesn't say 'Fine,' or roll his eyes, or do anything other than let himself be guided into the observation deck. It's completely empty, which is odd for this time of day – evenings usually attract couples and lonely hearts and people just looking for some peace and comfort. 

“Come, sit,” Young says, taking him over to one of the small couches they've put in here. Rush lets himself be sat down. Normally he would've had something to say about being treated like this, but today... it's just... it feels like he doesn't have any fight left in him. 

“Okay,” Young says, grabbing a black duffel bag from beside the couch as he sits down next to Rush. “We've got alcohol.” He plunks down a metal bottle and two military issue cups on the little coffee table in front of them. “Food.” An assortment of dried fruits and meats, and the experimental cornbread that Becker had managed to make out of the grain they'd found two planets back. Young must have done some bribing to get his hands on a piece when it isn't even Saturday. “Music, if you feel like it?” he says, taking out Rush's iPod and a little speaker set. Rush doesn't quite know how to respond to all of it, but Young just bumps his shoulder against Rush's and ducks down to grab the last thing from the bag. “And smokes. Now, I don't guarantee they're any good, but Brody said it's as close to tobacco as he's gotten, yet.” 

Rush feels a bit overwhelmed, looking at the set-up Young has created here. He's not quite sure how to ask _why_ , partly because he knows he'll sound like a jerk if he does, and partly because he thinks he already knows the answer. 

“Rush,” Young says, winding his fingers around Rush's hand carefully. “I know what day it is, and I don't want you to feel like you have to spend it alone again. But if you want to go, it's alright.” 

“There's no one here,” is all Rush's mouth says. 

Young gives him a small smile. “And there won't be, not tonight. We can do whatever you want.” 

“You did all of this for me?” 

The smile on Young's lips turns a little sad. “I will never be able to replace her, but I hope that I can at least make you feel a little less alone sometimes. When you need it.” 

And this is why sometimes Rush wonders if everything in his life has been leading him here. To this ship. To this life. To this man. Because he has tried breaking Young, and Young has tried killing him, and somehow they ended up here, holding hands and trying to make each other happy despite everything in their pasts that makes that seem impossible. Because Young is here, on the anniversary of Gloria's death, and he's trying to show Rush in his own way that he cares. 

“Have I ever let you listen to her favorite classical piece?” he asks, when his throat stops feeling like it's stuffed full of cotton wool. He hasn't, of course. He knows he hasn't, because he has barely shared anything about her with anyone. Because sharing bits of information about her felt like giving bits of her away. Bits that were _his_. 

“No,” Young says, with a soft look on his face. Rush slips his hand out of Young's to grab his iPod and scroll to the album he only ever lets himself listen to on this day. Once a year, and then he forces himself to lock it all up again, to push it all to the side for bigger, more important things. For the mission. He clicks it into the speaker, and then hesitates minutely before pressing play. The soft trills of violin harmonies start and send a shiver down his spine. 

He's not sure he can do this. Not with someone here. Even if it's Young. 

Still, he finds himself grabbing Young's hand again, squeezing it tightly as the music washes over him, through him, and his grief follows in its wake. In the end he finds himself curled up on the couch, leaning his head against Young's shoulder, crying hot tears into the fabric of his black shirt. 

It still hurts. 

It will always hurt. 

But maybe this year it hurt slightly less than last. And maybe next year will be better still.


	42. "I swear it was an accident!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bar!AU for this one (I do not deny being heavily inspired by whereismygarden's ["Crooked Lust As Intersection"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3707407)).

God, this was a fucking mistake. David talked him into it, promising him a night of booze and talk and getting his mind off of Emily and the divorce, but damn it does he regret coming now. Because Telford is schmoozing up some hot blonde, and Young thinks maybe he drank a bit too much, and just now a redheaded woman who reminded him way too much of his wife (ex-wife) tried to talk him up and he'd completely frozen, and this isn't what he wants at _all_. 

He has to get out of here, has to get some air, because the music is pounding too loudly in his ears, and his heart is starting to stutter in that way that heralds a panic attack, and _he can't be here_. He grabs his beer, mostly on auto-pilot, and turns away from Telford and the catch he's reeling in. He doesn't expect the man standing behind him, and he certainly doesn't intend to upend half his drink on top of him as they crash together. 

“Jesus,” the man says, looking up from his soaked shirt to Young with an angry snarl. “What the fuck?” 

There's an odd tone to his voice. An accent, even if Young can't place it right this second. 

“Sorry,” he hears himself say. The man looks furious, eyes dark and heated and spoiling for a fight, and Young wonders whether maybe this is exactly why the man came here. He looks like he's been ready to punch someone for much longer than just tonight. Part of Young wants to do it. Part of him says it'll be nice to work out some of the anger and the frustration through physically attacking some random stranger. But a bigger part of him doesn't want to. Doesn't want to hurt this man who he could easily lay out if he chose to. It wouldn't be fair. It would be him, and his broader frame, and his military training, against this guy, a scrawny-looking professor-type who is probably older than Young is. 

“I swear it was an accident,” he says. He looks down at the man's chest and realizes his shirt is pretty much ruined. “I can give you my shirt, if you want it.” 

For some reason that seems to give the other man pause. Then something ripples over his face, and Young isn't sure what it means, but he doesn't particularly like the quick thrill it sends through his insides. 

“You want to give me your shirt?” 

“Well, you could give it back to me after I've got yours dry-cleaned,” he answers, feeling oddly like this burgeoning fight is now turning into a burgeoning... something else. “My name's Everett. Everett Young.” 

The other man cocks his head at him. “Fine then, Everett Young. I'll take your shirt.” 

Young isn't entirely sure how he finds himself in the small bathroom of the bar with this man, but he doesn't hesitate to unzip his jacket and fold it over the grimy sink before pulling off his long-sleeved t-shirt. The music sounds kind of muffled here, and for some reason he doesn't feel like leaving anymore at all. Not right now, anyway.

“Rush,” the other man says, taking Young's shirt with one hand and bringing his other hand up to trail through Young's chest hair. “My name's Nicholas Rush.” 

And this has gone from averted fight to... - to what? Gay sex in a squalid bar bathroom? - real fast. It's not... it isn't that he doesn't want it. This man (Rush) seems just the right amount of dangerous and desperate to be exactly what he needs right now. But for some reason the idea of loving and leaving this guy just like that doesn't seem overly enticing at all. 

“Take off your shirt,” he says, wrapping his fingers around the hand Rush has planted on his chest and gently pulling it away from his skin. “And give me your phone number.” 

Rush frowns at him, but he doesn't say much as he retracts his hand from Young's grip and works open the buttons on his shirt. When he's dressed again, when he has Young's too large, black shirt on, he raises his eyebrow at him. “You don't want sex?” 

Young zips up his jacket – it feels weird without anything on underneath it – and gathers Rush's wet shirt into his hands. “I never said I didn't,” he answers, giving in to temptation and letting his fingers run over the waistband of Rush's jeans. He's not entirely sure why he enjoys the image of the slimmer man wearing his shirt so much. Maybe because it's so obviously not his size. Or maybe it's because he looks kind of good in black. “Just let me get your shirt clean, first.” 

Rush shakes his head, then, lets out a soft snort, and writes his phone number down on Young's hand like they're teenagers. 

Later, nearly a full week later, when Young goes over to Rush's house to bring him back his (now beer-free) shirt, he half expects Rush to start yanking off his clothes in the hallway and fuck him right there on the floor. Looking at Rush, with his dark, dark eyes and his scruffy beard and his wiry forearms, Young doesn't think he'd have minded that in the least. But Rush asks him if he'd like to have some of the lasagna he's making, and they end up watching The Sting, and by the end of the night Young realizes he hasn't thought of Emily and the divorce once... and maybe this is even better than hallway sex. 

A few weeks later, it turns out he can have both.


	43. "YOU DID WHAT?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smol!Young for SeekingIdlewild, who did it [so much better](http://archiveofourown.org/series/310320)!  
> Check out this [adorable fanart](http://literallygold.tumblr.com/post/125750362069/some-rush-and-very-smol-young-for-so-fragged) by the amazing literallygold!

“YOU DID WHAT?!” Young shouts, but his usual low bellow is high-pitched and squeaky and so lacking in volume that Rush feels an inappropriate burst of laughter tickle in the back of his throat. 

“I must have set it to 'shrink',” he says, instead of pointing out that Young sounds like a chipmunk. 

“You cannot just go around hitting people with shrink rays, Rush!” Young looks altogether pissed off, tiny arms folded in front of his tiny chest. Tiny eyes glaring tiny daggers at him. Maybe he should radio Eli, call him over with one of his kinos and make sure he documents this. Because Rush is going to want to keep this image with him for a long time. 

“It was an accident, Colonel. And I apologized,” he says, bending forward to pluck the man up from where he's standing. 

“Put me DOWN!” Young yells, angry and indignant and still in that high-pitched squeak that makes this whole thing unintendedly hilarious. He places Young on the ledge of the console before Young actually tries to bite him, and resists the urge to poke him in the stomach a little. If he had known shrinking Young would make him quite so adorable he'd have done it ages ago. 

“Jesus, Rush. Little warning next time,” Young says, straightening his shoulders and looking down at the monitor in front of him with a furrowing brow. 

“Right,” Rush says, starting to enter commands to figure out what exactly just happened that caused Young to shrink rather than to scan his body for signs of damage or disease. Young lets him work quietly, eyes tracking the movements on the monitor even though Rush doubts his Ancient is good enough to actually follow what he's doing. Eventually, he realizes what went wrong, and he feels something akin to embarrassment flush over his face at his error. It's at least partly Young's fault, for distracting Rush with that inappropriate comment and that amused little smile of his. 

“I can fix this,” he says, turning to Young. “But I need some time to reprogram the machine. And...” 

“...And?” Young prompts him, raising his tiny little eyebrows in a way that isn't nearly as commanding as it is when the man is his usual size. 

“The machine needs to recharge. Which will take a while.” 

Young sighs and closes his eyes. It should make him look solemn and tired, but all he manages to look is precious. “How long?” 

“Forty-eight hours, give or take,” Rush answers, vaguely contemplating what would happen if he gently booped Young on the head with one finger right now. 

Young rubs his hand over his face. “Radio TJ.” When Rush gives him a questioning look, he sighs and says, “I can't command the ship like this. She'll understand.” 

Ah, so Young intends to just withdraw from the crew for the time the machine needs to recharge. It's understandable. It might be the best choice, actually. He radioes Johansen for medical assistance. 

She manages to keep quite a straight face as Rush explains the situation, although she fails to completely hide the small quirk to her lips. Young allows her to poke and prod at him a little – and Rush is certain that while she does it under the guise of a 'medical examination', it's hardly more than an excuse. At least it's good to know he's not the only one experiencing these urges at the sight of a miniature version of the Colonel. Rush is quite sure Young would not accept _him_ doing what he's letting Johansen do, though, and it incites a childish flare of jealousy in his chest. 

Instead of watching the rest of the examination, Rush turns back to his console and starts figuring out how to reprogram the Ancient machine that caused all this in the first place. 

“You want to keep this quiet?” Johansen asks Young. 

“Rush says it's just for two days,” Young answers, voice tiny and quiet, and Rush can't help it – he looks over at the Colonel again. Young is standing at parade rest, hands folded together behind the small of his back, and Rush really doesn't understand why the image is so fucking endearing, but it truly is. 

“Well, you'll need someone to keep an eye on you, it'd be dangerous to leave you on your own,” Johansen says. Belatedly, she inclines her head a little, and adds, “Sir.” 

Young's face is still and emotionless, and Rush thinks he must really hate this. He feels a little guilty for a second. This _was_ his fault, after all. He shouldn't have allowed himself to be distracted to the point where he oversaw something quite so major. 

“He can stay with me,” Rush offers, a little surprised at himself. Johansen looks up at him with raised eyebrows, but Rush's attention is focused solely on Young. On his tiny commanding officer who is giving him a look that is either suspicious or thoughtful. He can never quite tell, with Young. 

“Okay,” Young says, surprising Rush even further. Young nods at Lieutenant Johansen, and she gives him a quiet nod in return. 

“I'll check in on you again tonight,” she says, before giving Rush a pointed look and turning around. 

Right. He'd best make sure no harm comes to Young, or he'll never hear the end of it from her. 

Three hours later, when Young is sitting on his shoulder – small hand wrapped tightly in the strands of Rush's hair for balance – he figures out a way to speed up the recharging process to a mere twelve hours. Young yawns, short and barely audible, even this close to Rush's ear, and Rush feels his lips quirk up. 

Well. Perhaps he'll keep his knowledge of how to shorten the recharge to himself for now. There aren't that many opportunities to see Young this adorable, after all.


	44. "If you die, I'm going to kill you!"

“Colonel!” Rush shouts, and Jesus fucking Christ, Young's blood is streaming over his hands despite the balled up t-shirt he is pressing into the wound on Young's abdomen. “Colonel, stay with me.” 

Young lets out a pained sound, low and croaking, and Rush isn't sure whether he's even still lucid. Part of him hopes not. Part of him hopes Young isn't feeling all of this, because it looks like it hurts. A lot. 

A land mine – or at least the alien equivalent of one. Who the fuck put land mines out here, Rush wants to know. Because there's nothing here. Nothing but a fuckload of jungle and the occasional picturesque babbling brook. It had seemed like the perfect planet for foraging. They'd collected water and fruit, and they'd even caught a few rabbit-like animals that Inman had declared edible. 

It wasn't until Lieutenant James had frozen, stock still, and said “Everybody get back!” that they had realized this planet might not have been as perfect as they'd first thought. 

Young had saved her, of course he had, and Rush feels an angry burst of exasperated ire at the man. Obviously he wouldn't have wanted to see James blown to bits, either, but is it really necessary for Young to throw himself into deathly peril at every turn? And this time... this time might be the last, it seems. He doesn't quite know what to do with the overwhelming wave of fear and grief and _no!_ that washes through him at that thought. 

“I swear to God, Young,” he bites out, ignoring the way his eyes burn. Ignoring the way James is looking at him, sending updates to Lieutenant Johansen's team as they make their way over here as quickly as possible. “If you die, I'm going to kill you.” 

“...Rush,” Young says, pained and labored and much too reedy for how he normally sounds. 

“Yeah,” Rush answers, keeping pressure on Young's wound and refusing to let himself believe Young might not make it out of here, that he might never make it off this planet. Not alive, anyway. No, he's not going to think about that. He takes one of his hands off the wadded up cloth, and lets it stroke over Young's face. He's not going to acknowledge the wet streak of blood it leaves behind on Young's cheek either. “You're alright, Colonel. You're going to be alright.” 

“Doctor Rush,” James says, and Rush is jarred out of the moment. He gives her an angry glare and gets ready to spit out something venomous, when she lowers her eyes to Young's form and says, “TJ is almost here.” 

Less than thirty seconds later, Johansen's team crashes into the clearing. She's at Young's side in a heartbeat, gently removing Rush's hand from where he's putting pressure on the wound and taking over. 

“Colonel?” she says, and Rush's upper legs stop supporting his weight and he feels himself fall into a sitting position. “Everett?” 

Young mumbles something, but his eyes don't open and his words are indecipherable. Rush feels lightheaded. He looks down at his hands, and they're covered in blood. Wet blood, glistening and bright red, and it's mesmerizing until he realizes what he's looking at. He starts wiping his hands impulsively on the thick, orange grass surrounding him. 

Lieutenant Johansen directs Scott and Brody to get Young up on a kino stretcher, and before long they're gone, back to the gate. Rush is left sitting there, staring at his hands that won't get clean no matter how many times he rubs them through the grass or over the fabric of his trousers. Lieutenant James clears her throat, but he only vaguely registers it. It isn't until she puts her hand on his shoulder that he flinches away, jerked roughly out of the looping thoughts in his own head. 

“Doctor Rush,” she says, not attempting to touch him again. “We should go.” 

And yeah, Jesus. They should. He isn't sure why he's losing his mind right now. Isn't sure what reason there could possibly be that he can't keep his focus on anything but the dark, clotting blood gathered in the edges of his nails, tracing his cuticles in dark maroon. 

\- _Young might be dead, Young might be dead, Young might be dead_ -

Getting back to the ship doesn't take long, and it's not difficult to ignore the inquisitive or worried or just plain confused looks Lieutenant James keeps sending him, because his mind is elsewhere. 

“He's lost a lot of blood,” Johansen says gravely, folding her hands in front of her body. “He needs a transfusion.” 

“I'm the same type,” Rush says, stepping forward and rolling up his sleeve. They'd all been tested when Volker needed a new kidney. He knows Young's blood type matches his own. “Do it.” 

He hasn't even had time to wash Young's blood off his hands, but it doesn't matter. 

Lieutenant Johansen refuses to take more than 750 milliliters of his blood, and he does feel rather woozy and unbalanced when she's done, although he urges her to take what she needs – what Young needs – rather than what she thinks he can miss. 

It's enough, in the end. It's enough, and Young lives. 

It isn't until three days later that Young comes to him. Rush hasn't visited Young, hasn't been willing to see the man after the spectacle he made of himself. But it's given him time to think, and he realizes something that he hadn't realized before. 

“You saved my life,” Young says, shoulders bowed with the wound on his stomach. They're alone here, in the control interface room. His team is on the bridge, and Rush has been working at his console for hours without interruption. Young's presence feels like time skips a beat. “Thank you.” 

Rush sighs and rubs the ball of his hand against his forehead. 

“Do me a favor, Colonel,” he says tiredly. “Stop finding ways of getting yourself killed.” 

“Rush?” Young asks. Rush thinks there's something deeper in the words, some unspoken question that Rush can't quite decipher. 

It doesn't matter. He's not going to keep this hidden, not for long anyway, and right now he feels just raw enough, just grateful enough that Young is still alive, hobbling around the ship and annoying him when they should be doing something more productive, that it doesn't even feel hard to make himself say the words. 

“I don't want you to die.” 

Young huffs out a short breath. “Well, that's reassuring. Although I'd like to believe you wouldn't want anyone to die, generally speaking.” 

“No,” Rush says, shaking his head and giving Young an exasperated look. “I don't want _you_ to die.” 

“Oh,” Young says, and his face softens into something almost... almost beautiful. “Rush.” 

“Yeah,” Rush says, letting Young's magnetic pull draw him forward until he's standing close enough to touch. His heart is beating a rapid rhythm in his chest, and his eyes keep flicking between Young's mouth and his eyes. 

“Well,” Young says, with a small quirk to his lips. “I wouldn't like it very much if you died either.”


	45. "Tell me a secret."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for Eevylynn and SeekingIdlewild. :)

“Oh God, _Young_ ,” Rush pants, and Young isn't sure how well he manages to contain his arousal at that desperate edge in Rush's voice. 

Christ, he's been thinking about Rush too much, lately. He's been imagining him like this (well, not like _this_ , exactly) too often in the dark refuge of his quarters late at night. He's been dreaming about Rush sounding like this, about Rush begging him to touch him like this, way more often than can be clinically healthy. 

But this isn't what he wants. He doesn't want Rush to cling to him with lust because of some goddamn alien powder. He doesn't want Rush to need him only to satisfy the droning, chemically-induced heat coursing through him right now. 

Because he knows what will happen if he gives in. He knows Rush will resent him for it. And he'd fucking be right to. 

“Rush,” he says, willing his face to stay neutral as his hands curl tightly around Rush's biceps to pull the man away from him. “Quit it.” 

“I can't,” Rush says, shaking his head as if trying to loosen the thoughts that make it impossible to stop himself from reaching for Young. “Fuck, I _can't_.” 

“You can,” Young says, taking a quick survey of their environment. They're still in the underground structure. The alien version of a temple, as Rush had ascertained earlier, before opening a clay canister of... of whatever aphrodisiac these long-gone aliens had used during their religious rituals. “We're going to get out of here, and you're going to be fine.” 

Rush moans, bringing down one of his hands to rub against the bulging erection in his pants, and Young swallows hard. Goddammit, he wishes it wasn't just the two of them here. He wishes Scott or Greer were beside him. At least that would have made it impossible to act on his desire. Maybe Rush would've clung to one of _them_ , then. To Scott's tall, defined frame, or Greer's bulky muscles. 

Shit, why does that thought make a hot flare of jealousy course through his veins? 

“Please, Colonel,” Rush breathes, his eyes falling closed with the pleading expression on his face. “I need you to touch me.” 

And Jesus fucking Christ, _any_ other circumstances and those words would have been enough to give in. To pull Rush closer to him and to shove his way against him, _inside_ him, until both of them were aching for it, juggling the need to climax with the need to prolong their pleasure. 

“Rush, no,” he says, and it's no longer possible to keep the strain out of his voice. His own cock is just as hard as Rush's now. Young is grateful that the man seems to be unable to open his eyes, because he really doesn't need Rush to know how much this is affecting him. 

“ _Stay_ ,” he orders firmly, like he's talking to a dog, before taking his hands off Rush's arms and quickly unbuckling his belt. Rush doesn't listen – of course he doesn't – and Young bites back a groan at the way Rush's hands find his dick, squeezing and groping at Young with a wanton sound. 

“Oh my God, your cock,” Rush breathes, and Young bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from giving in. 

When he has his belt in his hands he grabs Rush's wrists and twists them behind Rush's back. He's not going to acknowledge the strangled sound Rush makes. And he's not going to acknowledge the way his breath whooshes out when Rush says “Fuck, _yeah_ , tie me up,” either. 

Instead he loops the leather of his belt around Rush's wrists until he can close it, until Rush won't be able to wriggle out of it. 

Rush yelps highly when Young lifts him up and throws him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. “Jesus!” 

Young wants to say something. Something calm and amused and indicative of the fact that he's not even a little bit affected by the situation. Instead he just lets out a rough groan at the feeling of Rush's erection against his shoulder. 

He's going to get them out of here. He's going to get Rush back to the gate, and then Rush'll be TJ's problem. If she can't cure him, she can always sedate him until the effects of the powder have dissipated. (He doesn't allow himself the thought that this might be permanent. And he certainly doesn't allow himself the thought that Rush might just be reacting to _him_. Because that kind of thinking is really fucking dangerous. Because that kind of thinking might make it seem entirely alright to take advantage of the situation. Because that kind of thinking doesn't lead anywhere but to huge mistakes and pain all around.) 

The underground tunnels are a maze, and Young curses so much the word 'fuck' seems to lose its meaning entirely. Rush does everything he can to find some leverage to rub off against him, and Young's cheeks feel so goddamn hot with the effort of ignoring the little broken noises Rush lets out that he's sure he's about to catch on fire. 

They make it out, though. They make it out, back into the waning light of the setting sun, and Young heaves a sigh of relief at the realization that he knows where they are. He can get them back to the stargate within minutes. 

“Hold on, Rush,” he grits out, tightening his hand on the man's backside so he'll have less room to squirm against him. “We're almost there.” 

In the end, TJ takes care of it. Young doesn't want to ask how she does it, but she tells him anyway. She says she tied Rush to one of the infirmary cots and flushed his system with the nettle leaves they'd found a few planets back – the ones they'd found to contain some sort of chemical that Inman had said worked like an 'antitoxin' on human physiology – and after an hour or two Rush had fallen asleep to recover. 

TJ gives him a quick glance before lowering her eyes to the side. “He kept asking for you,” she says. 

If Young didn't know better he'd say there was a hint of amusement to her tone. He can't be sure though. He can't be asked to decipher it right now, because his heart is beating a terrible rhythm in his chest and his neck flushes with something that isn't quite embarrassment and isn't quite lust either. 

Of course it doesn't come as a surprise that Rush manages to avoid him for _days_ after the incident. It's like he knows exactly where Young is and where he'll be, because every single time Young tries to find him all he's greeted with are the apologetic and confused looks of the science team. 

When he finally manages to catch up with Rush, it's a coincidence. He hadn't expected to find Rush here, in this abandoned storage room, and he isn't sure how to start the conversation. 

Still, he knows he has to. He has to find a way to clear the air between them, because this isn't workable. They can't command the ship like this. Not with Rush ignoring all his radio calls. Not with Rush being unable to look him in the eye, let alone speak to him. 

“Look,” Young says, feeling like a bit of a jerk for staying in position between Rush and the door to keep the man from escaping. “You weren't yourself, Rush. You have nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Finally, _finally_ , Rush looks at him. It's a glare, and it's so dark Young almost feels himself take a step back. 

“Fucking easy for you to say, Colonel,” Rush bites out. 

And, yeah, Young supposes it is. But it's not like this is his fault. It's not like he can do anything about it now. He wants to fix this, but he's honestly got no idea how to even go about it. 

“...What do you want me to do?” he asks, when it's clear Rush isn't going to give him anything but angry looks. 

Something ripples over Rush's face, then. Something Young doesn't quite comprehend. 

“Tell me a secret,” Rush says, voice quiet and strained. “Make us even.” Everything about his facial expression and his body language tells Young he doesn't think his request will be granted. 

Young is quiet for a long time, thinking over his options. It isn't until Rush huffs out an annoyed breath and starts to turn away from him, arms crossing over his chest, shoulders hunched, that he finally speaks the words. 

“I want you.” 

It's... it's one of the hardest things he's ever had to admit, but it's also true, and if this is what he needs to give Rush to make things between them more balanced... 

It's not a smart move, probably, but he can't think of anything better. 

“What?” Rush says, turning back to him with an incredulous stare. 

Young doesn't answer. He knows Rush heard him. He's not going to say it again. 

“You're...?” Rush takes an uncertain step closer to him, and Young feels his heartbeat spike. He shouldn't have said it. He shouldn't have given Rush that ammunition. Because Rush is sure to take advantage. He's going to poke and prod at this weak spot in Young's defenses until he finds a way in, a way to destroy him or control him, and Young can't afford that. Not right now. 

Fuck, why doesn't that make him feel any less drawn to the man? 

“You... Jesus fucking—why didn't you say something?” Rush asks, voice hoarse. “Why didn't you _do_ something?” 

And Young isn't sure how to answer that – isn't sure whether he should respond with more honesty or whether he's given away too much already – but he doesn't get much time to contemplate it, because before he knows what is happening Rush is in his face, curling his fingers into the front of his jacket and dragging him in for a hard kiss. 

It's not what he expected at all, he thinks, as Rush's tongue plunders his mouth with an amount of desperation Young can barely reciprocate. The little noises Rush makes into his mouth make Young's skin light up with fiery lust. 

“God, _Young_ ,” Rush pants against his lips, and this time Young doesn't feel the same kind of compunction he did when Rush was drugged by that alien substance. Rush is back on him, kissing him breathless, and Young feels the corners of his lips turn up at how much Rush obviously wants this, too. 

Yeah, it's not what he expected at all. But somehow it's exactly what he's been dreaming about all these months as well.


	46. "Hey, have you seen the...? Oh."

Eli runs. Well, he _jogs_ , which is like 'I'm kinda excited about sharing this news with you' running for him, anyway. 

“Hey,” he says, as soon as the door to the control interface room whirs open. “Have you seen the...” 

The sight he's greeted with just... it just does not compute. It's not what he'd expected (and duh, obviously it isn't), but it also makes some strange wires in his brain cross the wrong way, and for a moment he's torn between laughing and shouting and feeling just the smallest bit turned on. 

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathes out, and that is all that seems to be forthcoming. Rush is kneeling in front of Young and it's pretty obvious what he was doing just now, because his mouth is puffy and wet, and his eyes fill with fury at the sight of Eli. 

“Fuck,” Young says, burying his face in his hands and hanging it in shame. 

“Get the hell out,” Rush says, and Eli really doesn't need to hear that rasp in his voice, but he clearly _does_ need the advice, because _holy fucking shit_. Within the second he is punching the door control to the room and slumping back against the metal wall of the corridor. 

He can just make out Young's plaintive “I thought you said it was locked,” before the door to the room closes again. 

Jesus fricking Christ, what the hell did he just witness? 

His heart is racing in his chest, and his cheeks burn hot, and man, what the actual fuck. Young and Rush? Like _that_? 

“Eli,” Young says, as soon as he walks out of the control interface room. Not more than half a minute can have passed, even if Eli thinks he's probably lost all sense of time to call it definitively. “I'm not—We're...” 

Eli takes a deep breath and attempts to look Young in the eye. He doesn't quite succeed, but he can focus on that patch of skin above the bridge of Young's nose, right between his eyebrows, instead. He hopes it looks like eye contact to Young. 

“Sorry,” Young settles on. “You weren't meant to see that.” 

Eli can't help it, he flicks his eyes down to Young's crotch. Young's uniform pants are zipped up and much too bulky to reveal whether or not he's still hard. He probably is, though, Eli thinks. He feels an inappropriate giggle tickle the back of his throat, because _wow_ , he does not need to be thinking about _that_. Jesus.

“You're together?” Eli asks, when it finally feels like he can speak again. He's pretty sure Young doesn't miss the wobble in his voice, though. 

“It's none of your concern,” Rush says, briskly stepping into the door opening, his arms crossing over his chest defensively. And like fuck it isn't. 

“Are you kidding me?” Eli says, feeling his anger spill over into words. “You two have been fighting and making each other miserable for _years_! And guess who got to deal with it? _Me_! Every single freaking time!” He takes in a deep gulp of air, and shakes his head. “What the hell, you guys?!” 

Rush sends him a heated little glare, but Young just gazes at him with a thoughtful expression on his face. When it seems like Rush is about to respond with something harsh and biting, Young circles his hand around Rush's wrist and gives him a quick look and a barely noticeable shake of his head. 

More than finding Rush on his knees in front of Young, more than the thought that these two morons somehow managed to fall for one another in between fighting and beating each other up all the time, the fact that Rush actually swallows his words at that small signal from Young is what makes Eli's head spin. 

“It hasn't been going on for very long,” Young says. 

For some reason, that actually does make Eli feel slightly better. 

“You need to keep this to yourself,” Rush says, and Young huffs out an exasperated breath and gives Rush a look of such 'Jesus Christ, Rush, can you not be a dick for five minutes?' that Eli somehow feels most of his fluttery anxiety fall by the wayside. 

Because they're still _them_. They haven't been replaced by shapeshifting aliens. They haven't been poisoned by some sort of mind-altering spore. They're just Colonel Young and Doctor Rush, and they still find each other irritating as fuck. 

They simply also happen to be together. Hah, _simply_. 

Holy crap, this is such an epic mess that Eli doesn't even know how to react.

“Right. Like anyone would believe me,” he says eventually, with an exaggerated eye roll at Rush. 

“Eli,” Young says, sounding serious and much calmer than Eli feels. “If you're going to tell anyone, I think it's better if I tell them myself.” 

“Yeah... Yeah,” Eli says, refusing to look at where Young's hand is still linked around Rush's wrist. “No, I won't tell anyone. Promise.” 

Young gives him a small smile, and even Rush looks kind of grateful. 

“Just lock the doors if you're going to be doing stuff like that, from now on.” 

He'd hoped for a flash of embarrassment, or maybe a hint of a blush high up on Rush's cheeks. Instead, all he gets is Young giving Rush a pointed look, and Rush lifting his eyebrow in challenge at the Colonel as he runs his tongue over his upper lip in a way that is much more sexual than Eli ever needed to see from him. 

Eli groans. 

He's already pretty sure this will become staple in his ever growing collection of nightmare material.


	47. "No one needs to know."

Everything is dark aside from the ever glowing trail of FTL outside the small window in his quarters. Young isn't sure what time it is, but it's night, late night. Which is why he's surprised to hear his door slide open. 

He's even more surprised by the person stepping through the door. “Rush?” he says, sitting up straight in bed. “Is something happening?” 

Rush doesn't answer, he just closes the door behind him and pads over to Young's bed. He's not wearing any shoes, Young notices only now. He's also not wearing his vest or his green t-shirt. He looks different, like this. Less untouchable, maybe. 

“Rush?” Young asks again, when Rush climbs onto the bed, straddles Young's legs, and puts his hands on Young's shoulders for balance. “What are y—” 

“Shh,” Rush says quietly, leaning in to brush his lips against Young's. It makes Young's heartbeat race, and his blood feels like it wants to rush everywhere at once, down to his groin, up to his cheeks, all under the surface of his skin, making everything tingle. “We don't have to talk about it. No one needs to know.” 

Rush lets one of his hands roam up the line of Young's neck, past the curve of his jaw, and up into his hair. “I want you.” 

God, Young doesn't know how to react to this – everything feels like it's infused with electricity, and every part of his being is chanting _yes, yes, yes_ , at this unexpected development. 

Rush gives him a short look, calculating or turned on, Young isn't sure. Then he tips his head forward again to kiss Young, lips touching and breaths hitching, and Young can't help but lean forward, into it, into that softness and that warmth and _Rush_. 

Rush kisses him like that for a while, little more than lips against lips with a gentle pressure that feels much more tender than he ever expected, until Young lets his own hands come up to curl around Rush's shoulders, to pull him closer against him, and Rush lets out a small moaning sound. Young drags the kiss deeper then, tongue pressing inside until they're both groaning into each other's open mouths with the heat that is building between them. 

“God, Rush,” Young says, when Rush pulls back to yank off his own t-shirt. 

“Get naked,” Rush says, before climbing off him to work off his own jeans and underwear, and pulling aside the covers. When Young has his own shirt and boxers off, Rush pushes him down flat against the bed, and slots his own body on top of him. “Fuck, you're so warm,” he breathes out, before kissing him again. 

Young wraps his arms around the small of Rush's back, and muffles a soft groan when Rush starts grinding his hips against him in a jerky rhythm. The pressure of his hard cock against Young's own is almost just as bewildering as the idea that it is _Rush_ doing this. Kissing him like this. Rubbing off against him like this. Jesus. 

Rush kisses with a kind of rebellious dominance that really shouldn't be as hot as it is, and for a while Young gets so lost in the sweltering passion between them that his bites and moans become a little harder than is probably prudent. But then, he's having sex with Rush, prudence has pretty much been skipped out of the window. 

His own cock is pulsing with need by now, and he can't keep his hips from bucking up into Rush's rhythm faster and faster. He grips Rush's ass in his hands to squeeze and pull him closer, harder against him. 

“Colonel, Colonel,” Rush pants, sounding completely out of it, “Fuck, oh God, _shit_!” 

Young feels the warm, wet slick of Rush's release, and can't help the deep moan working its way out of his throat as Rush arches against him. 

“Jesus, Rush,” he bites out, pumping his hips against the slippery skin of Rush's abdomen until he topples over the edge of climax himself. 

They lie like that, breaths heaving and stomachs covered in come, and all Young wants to do is kiss Rush more. So he does. Rush makes a small noise into his mouth, but doesn't protest. His movements are languid and sweet, and Young loves the way Rush kisses. He lets himself be lulled to the point of near-sleep, and makes a hum of agreement when Rush says, “Should've done that ages ago.” Rush's hand strokes a soothing pattern over his scalp—

—and Young wakes up. 

Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell was that? With a low groan, he realizes he's come in his boxers, and goddammit, he does _not_ need to add 'having hyper realistic wet dreams about Rush' to the list of reasons why his life sucks. 

Angry and embarrassed and still reeling with how much he wants to find Rush and fuck him for real right now, Young changes out of his soiled underwear and cleans himself up. 

The next morning, in the mess hall, Rush flushes bright red and refuses to make eye contact when they run into each other. 

It still takes Young three more nights to realize it isn't just him, having the dreams.


	48. "Boo."

“Sweetheart,” Greer says in the mess hall that morning. “Colonel Young is looking for you.” 

Rush narrows his eyes at him and gives him a dirty look, but then shrugs it off and decides Greer is probably just trying to get a reaction. He has no time for that kind of nonsense. The incident slips to the back of his mind until he walks into the control interface room to start working. 

“Good morning, babe,” Chloe smiles at him, and it sounds exactly like her usual morning greetings, except for the rather inappropriate term of endearment. Rush frowns and gives her a suspicious look, but she's already turned back to her console and she doesn't even notice. 

“I need you to sign off on the schedules for tomorrow's shore leave,” Camile says an hour later, when she walks into the control interface room. Rush takes a quick look at her papers and gives her a slight nod. “Thanks, honey,” Camile says, before turning on her heel and stalking out of the room again. 

By now it's clear something strange is going on. People are behaving like usual, but they're calling him 'sweetheart', and 'honey', and this isn't right at all. 

“Hey, boo,” Park says, stepping forward from her console and feeling her way over to him with deliberate movements. “You should look at these numbers, Volker thinks there's something going on in the mainframe.” 

And that's _it_. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” he bursts out at everyone in the room. Park gives him a shocked look – he can tell even behind those dark glasses she's taken to wearing – and Eli and Chloe murmur a few undignified sounds at each other. Brody and Volker just exchange puzzled glances. Rather than checking Park's console, Rush stomps out of the room in a huff. 

“Rush,” Young says from behind him, fifteen minutes later, and thank God, at least whatever is going on doesn't seem to include him. 

“Something is fucking wrong,” Rush says, grabbing Young's sleeve and dragging him into one of the side corridors. In a hushed voice he admits, “People keep calling me _names_.”

Young gives him a look that is both amused and confused. “You call people names all the time.” 

“No,” Rush says, shaking his head in irritation. “...Pet names.” 

Young presses his lips together as if to try and keep himself from laughing. “People keep calling you pet names?” 

“Yes!” Rush bites out. “Sweetheart, babe... it's unprofessional and it's distracting. I want them to stop!” 

“You think they're messing with you?” Young asks. The curl at the corner of his lips makes Rush think Young is about three seconds away from coming up with his own term of endearment for Rush. He holds it back though, and Rush is both relieved and a little disappointed by that. Maybe he'd wanted to know what Young would call him if he wanted to get a rise out of him. Or if... Well.

Young tells him to stay put, then, and marches off to get some answers from the science team. Rush migrates to the nearest console and starts running diagnostics. It's not really necessary right now, but it's better than standing around aimlessly without doing anything. 

His eye falls on something discordant, though, and before long he's bent over the monitor of his console, trying to figure out what this new program is supposed to be doing. 

“Rush?” Young's voice sounds from the deserted corridor he'd left Rush behind in. 

“In here,” Rush answers, and he can practically _hear_ Young's eye roll at his inability to follow the most simple orders. 

“No one has any idea what you're talking about, Rush. It's not some kind of April Fool's Day prank, or whatever.” 

“No,” Rush murmurs. “I suppose it's not.” Because by now he's starting to understand what's happening, and it's Destiny. It must be. It's a program that's running on one single passenger, and it's pretty clear that it's him. She's altering the way he perceives spoken input, because... Why? Is this an attempt at her making him connect to the rest of the crew more? 

“It's Destiny,” he explains, because Young is sending him inquisitive looks, and he isn't as immune to that as he used to be. “She's running some sort of program on me.” 

Young raises his eyebrows. “A program that makes you hear things?” 

Rush shrugs. “It appears so. I need to shut it down.” 

“I'll say,” Young agrees. “So... anything I say right now, you'd have no idea whether it was real or not, huh?” 

There's something about Young's voice that makes Rush turn around, away from his console, to give Young an incredulous look. Young grins at him, and it looks playful and easy and a whole number of things he'd never associate with their relationship with each other. For a dizzying second he wonders if Destiny is doing this, or if it's actually Young. 

“I wonder how you'd react if I asked you to come have a drink with me tonight,” Young says. Then his lips quirk up even higher, and he adds, “Darling.” 

It's weird, how that affects Rush, because it's obviously not _real_. It's obviously either Young messing with him or Destiny blurring his perception, but it still makes something whoosh dangerously in his chest. He huffs out a breath, and he's afraid it doesn't sound nearly as dismissive as he wanted it to, and goes back to working on shutting down the program. Young just chuckles behind him before he steps closer to look over Rush's shoulder. 

His presence is a warm distraction at Rush's back, and when he finally figures out how to solve his problem, he's pretty sure Young's heat will stay with him for the rest of the day. 

“Done?” Young says, when he's entered the final codes and sags against the console with a relieved sigh. 

“Yeah, it's fixed.” 

“Okay, good,” Young says, taking another step that puts him in even closer proximity to Rush. “Then how about that drink tonight?”


	49. "Well, this is awkward."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU time again! Inspired by [this](http://gameoftywinning.tumblr.com/post/126708593558/iggycat-someone-needs-to-write-a-the-fire) prompt on Tumblr.

The high pitched beeping noise has him upright in bed immediately. Fuck, that's loud. What the hell is going on? 

He's out of bed and in his living room before he realizes it's the fire alarm, and Jesus Christ, this better not be another one of those 'oops I left my popcorn in the microwave too long' bullshit things again, because he's had it with people and their fucking idiocy. 

It's almost three AM, he realizes as he flicks his eyes over to the clock on his wall, and he doesn't have time to be woken up in the middle of the night like this for nothing. Then again, it probably beats the alternative. If someone's flat is actually on fire he'll be out on the street all night, and there's not even the slightest chance of any more sleep, then. 

He steps outside his door and blinks against the harsh lights in the hallway. He's just in time to hear the door to the neighboring flat open, and he feels his heartbeat ratchet up at the sight of his neighbor – E. Young, that's all he knows, because that's all his nameplate says on the mailbox downstairs – stepping through it in nothing more than his boxer shorts. They're black, and they look satiny, and Rush feels his fingers itch with the sudden urge to feel if they're as smooth and slippery as the way they reflect the hallway lights makes them seem. 

Young rubs blearily at his hair, and Rush hates himself a little for letting his eyes roam over the expanse of his chest. Fuck, the man is as sturdily built as he'd suspected, and his arms... Jesus. Those look like they could toss him around a little. The thought of that makes his cock twitch, and wow, isn't that inconvenient.

He can deal with this, though. He can be cordial and standoffish and indifferent, like a good neighbor should be. So he tears his gaze away from Young's nipples – surprisingly pale and pink, and fuck would he give his left arm to just run his fingers or his tongue over them right now – and gives Young a short nod. 

“Sorry!” the chubby kid from down the hall yells as he runs past. Rush is reasonably sure his name is Wallace. “False alarm!” 

The loud beeping continues on for a few more seconds, and then abruptly cuts off. 

“What time is it?” Young groans, squinting his eyes against the bright illumination of the corridor. 

“Almost three,” Rush answers, an embarrassing croak in his voice. He should go back inside, now. He should just turn away from this uncomfortable situation with this man he's been having stray thoughts about for the past four months, since he first moved in. He should just _leave_. 

Instead he might actually take a small step closer to Young when the man chuckles and scrubs a hand over his face. 

“Well, this is awkward,” Young says, looking down at his own state of undress before looking back up at Rush with a sheepish smile. “Everett. Everett Young. I don't think we've been formally introduced.” 

“Nicholas Rush,” Rush answers quietly, taking Young's outstretched hand and shaking it. Young has warm hands, and his skin is callused but soft, and Rush might hold his grip for half a second longer than is entirely appropriate. 

“I know,” Young says, still with that warm little smile on his face. “I asked Eli. You're a physics professor at Berkeley, right?” 

“Yeah,” Rush answers. He doesn't quite know what else to say. His neighbor, the one he's been wondering about for months now, the man who's featured in a number of embarrassing dreams, had asked about him? It makes his heart flutter nervously in his throat. 

“Well,” Young says again, after a long, silent pause has fallen between them. His hand comes up to scratch at the back of his head, and it's the first true sign of uncertainty he's seen from Young. “I guess I, uh—” 

And suddenly Rush realizes that if Young steps back inside his flat he might never get the chance to see him like this again. They might go back to silent nods in the hallways, and never speak another word. It's not... that's not what he wants, not at all, and maybe it's because it's the middle of the night, but he doesn't stop himself from interrupting Young before he can finish his sentence. 

“Would you like to come in for a drink?” 

Young slowly lowers his arm. “Right now?” he asks, eyebrows raising slightly. 

“We're up anyway,” Rush shrugs, hoping he sounds more casual than he feels. It's probably a ridiculous thing to do, inviting in a man he's never spoken to before at three AM for a drink. But... God, he really hopes Young will say yes. 

He feels his heartbeat pick up when Young's lips quirk into a small smile. “I should probably get dressed, first,” he says. It sounds just enough like a question that Rush is certain his attraction isn't one-sided. 

With a burst of boldness he takes a few steps closer, until he's within touching distance of Young. “Actually,” he says quietly, letting his fingertips run over the waistband of Young's boxers and reveling in the fact that they feel every bit as silky as he'd imagined. “That's the opposite of what I had in mind.”


	50. "May I?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of #49, because apparently I wasn't done with the cute neighbor!AU.

It's strange, Young thinks. Fifteen minutes ago he'd been in bed, asleep, and now he's here, in his neighbor's living room, trying not to feel self-conscious in nothing but his boxers as the man pours two tumblers of whisky.

He'd noticed the man the day he moved in. He'd been carrying a box, heavy with tableware, as his neighbor had exited the door across the hall. Pencil between his lips, glasses perched high on his nose, gaze focused on one of those tiny flip pads no one in the real world actually uses anymore. He hadn't even noticed Young, just strode past him with his brown suede jacket and his soft-looking hair and the light scent of his woody cologne. Maybe Young had been kind of smitten from that moment on. Maybe it had happened later that week, when he'd driven into the parking lot and he'd seen Rush crouched down near the entrance of their apartment building, petting a gray cat. The slight smile on the man's face had made him look beautiful but also oddly sad, and Young wondered what his story was. What his name was, even. When Young had stepped out of his car the cat startled and skitted away, and Rush had looked over at him before getting up to his feet again. He'd given Young a faintly curious look before turning away. By the time Young had his groceries in hand, Rush was already gone.

Eli, the kid down the hall, was nice, actually showing up at Young's doorstep with his friend and a tin of homemade cookies ("My mom made them. They're the best.") to welcome him to the building the week after he moved in.

"We're both doing our PhDs at Berkely," Chloe had explained. She was a political science major and Eli studied something about computer programming, the title of which had slipped Young's mind as soon as he heard it.

"So, any other interesting people living here?" Young asked, wondering whether his attempt at asking about his neighbor was as lacking in smoothness as he felt it did.

"Well, we've got Brody and Volker down the hall," Eli started, tapping his finger against his chin. He leaned forward, like he was sharing a secret, and with a slight twinkle in his eye he added, "They're getting engaged next month. Volker doesn't know it yet, though, so hush."

Young'd had to smile. The two men kind of reminded him of Chip and Dale, for some reason, which wasn't helped by the fact Volker's first name actually _was_ Dale. Except... those two had been brothers, hadn't they? So maybe not. Still, small and inseparable and slightly reminiscent of cute fluffy animals - he was probably going to mess up and call Brody 'Chip' one day.

"What about my neighbor?" Young had said, nodding over at the hallway. "The professor type?"

"Oh, Doctor Rush?" Eli had answered. "He's uh. He's a good guy. Pretty private. He teaches physics at the university. I haven't really spoken to him much, he tends to kind of keep to himself."

And that's how he'd learned about Rush. Chloe had known a bit more about him, apparently he'd taught one of her undergrad classes and he'd helped her through a rough patch - whether she meant in her personal life or in the field of study, she didn't expand on, and Young didn't want to intrude by asking. She'd seemed rather fond and a little protective of the guy, though, and Young didn't miss the speculative look in her eyes, almost as if she was sizing him up. He'd wondered what she saw when she looked at him, and then he'd wondered whether he really wanted to know.

So. Nicholas Rush. Physics professor with a love for old-fashioned office supplies and cats... It shouldn't have been as appealing as it was.

And here he is, in the man's living room at three AM.

Over the past four months, he's gotten to the point of exchanging friendly nods with the man when they meet in the hallway. Even when Rush has his nose buried in one of his notepads, he's began looking up when Young is near, and one time they'd spent an incredibly tense, quiet elevator ride together, which ended when they got to their floor and Young had been unable to think of saying anything other than 'Have a good night.'

And now... This... this is going from zero to sixty in like five seconds flat, and while Young doesn't _mind_ , it is getting harder and harder to stay calm and collected.

Rush turns around, two glasses in hand, and motions for him to sit on the couch. The man is dressed in striped pajama bottoms and a faded university t-shirt that looks just a tad too tight, and Young has to keep from checking him out too obviously. Which is kind of silly, because Rush had made his intentions pretty damn clear in the hallway. He takes the glass and sits down, feeling unfairly naked on Rush's leather couch until Rush settles down next to him and takes a sip of his drink. Young can feel his body heat, the hot brand of his thigh rubbing against Young's through nothing but a thin layer of cotton.

"So," Young starts, looking away from where Rush's leg is pressing into his. He moves to down a bit of his own whisky. "You do this a lot?"

Rush breathes out through his nose, almost but not quite a snort, and shakes his head as he takes another sip. "And I'd hazard from your tenseness you don't either."

Young doesn't say anything, just looks at Rush. The way his hair stands up a little bit on one side, the way the faint light in the room makes his eyes look nearly black... God, he wants to touch the man.

Suddenly Rush seems to come to a decision. He gently grabs Young's tumbler from his fingers and puts both their glasses down on the coffee table. "May I?" he asks, and Young almost laughs at the polite phrasing, but then Rush is getting up on his knees, flinging one leg over Young's lap and putting his hands on top of Young's shoulders until he's straddling his thighs, looking down at him, and all humor drains away until there's nothing but the hot throb of blood rushing against his eardrums and the droning anticipation of _yes, yes, yes_.

Rush brings up one hand to brush a few hairs back from Young's face, tucks them behind his ear in a way that makes Young feel oddly fragile, and then he's leaning in, leaning forward, until their lips touch. It's as if something gives way in Young's chest, because the next thing he knows he's wrapping his arms around Rush's frame, pulling him closer, harder against him, licking into his mouth with a wanton abandon he hasn't felt in a long time. Rush tastes like the whisky they just drank, and Young shivers when Rush lets out a little moan and twists his fingers into Young's hair.

Before long they're both hard, and Rush makes a desperate little sound when Young pulls back, holds him by his shoulders to keep him from moving. "Wait," Young pants, trying to ignore the way his cock is poking out through the slit in his boxers, or the way Rush's hand reaches for it before Young stills his arm by sliding his grip down a little. "This is going really fast." 

Rush groans and drags his eyes away from Young's dick to give him a heated little glare. "I'd say four months of foreplay doesn't exactly constitute fast." 

Young huffs out a breath. "You didn't even know my name until half an hour ago." 

"I don't need to know your name to suck you off, _Young_ ," Rush says darkly. 

"Jesus," Young breathes out. He shakes his head to rid himself of the image Rush just conjured in his mind, and frowns a little. "That's all you want?" 

Rush narrows his eyes a bit, and Young thinks he understands what he means perfectly well, but then he lets his lips curl into a dirty grin and answers, "Well, obviously I wouldn't say no to the blowjob being reciprocal. Or recurrent." 

And, dammit, Young can't help but be amused by how eager Rush is about this, about how much he wants this physical thing between them to finally happen. He lets his grip slacken and closes his eyes when Rush leans forward again, pressing hot kisses into the skin of his throat. "Let me take you out, tomorrow night," Young says, trying to keep his voice steady. "Dinner and a movie or something. Do this the way we're supposed to." 

Rush chuckles, and his eyes glitter when he pulls back and enters Young's vision again. "Alright," he says, licking his lips and circling his fingers around Young's length in a snug grip. "But this first." 


	51. “...I see you kept the fossil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Yoyi. :)

“Rush?” Young asks, impatiently knocking on the door to Rush's quarters. They need his chessboard. Rush was supposed to bring it to the observation deck for the crew's weekly chess tournament, but the man never showed up and he isn't responding to his radio. 

When Rush doesn't open or answer, Young heaves an annoyed sigh and presses his knuckles against the door control. He expects to find Rush inside - asleep on his bed, or with his head pressed into the keyboard of his laptop - but the room is empty. 

Fine. That's fine. He can just take the chess set and go back to the observation deck. If Rush wants to be pissed off at him for that he shouldn't have forgotten to bring it in the first place. 

Young quickly glances around the room, trying to locate the chess board. Ah, it's there, right beside the tiny makeshift desk Rush has set up in his quarters. His laptop isn't there – which makes sense, if the man is elsewhere on the ship – but there are papers and ripped out pages of his little notebooks and a few books. It's hardly an organized desk, but Young guesses there must be some method to the madness. At least in Rush's mind. There, leaning against the side of his desk, is the chessboard. It only takes Young three seconds to find the small pouch of chess pieces in the far left corner of the desk, and he honestly tries not to look through any of Rush's stuff as he grabs them both quickly, but still... still his eye falls on the small stone holding together a few scraps of paper. 

And it shouldn't mean anything, it really shouldn't, but it _does_ , for some reason. Because that's the fossil he'd found almost half a year ago, on one of the planets they'd been foraging for food and medicinals. He'd found it near a river bed, and it had seemed like something Rush would find interesting, so he'd given it to him. Rush had given him a look like he was either skeptical that Young had actually attempted to be civil with him, or like he thought the thing was little more than a piece of valueless rock, and Young had shrugged and pretended not to feel embarrassed to be doing something quite so sentimental. 

But... it seems maybe it hadn't been too sentimental, after all. If Rush has kept it all this time – and it isn't like his desk is littered with stones and bits of wood and debris from alien planets – maybe it had meant something to the man after all. 

“What are you doing here?” Rush's voice sounds from behind him, and Young has to consciously keep his body from startling. 

He turns around, only to find Rush's discontented face and his crossed arms aimed at him. Judging him. 

“Chess set,” he says inelegantly. “We have the tournament, and you didn't show up.” 

“Don't go into my room uninvited.” 

Young feels his eyes flick away. He wants to tell Rush to adhere to his agreements if he doesn't want people to barge into his space like this, but somehow he can't quite make himself. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

Rush doesn't say anything, and an awkward silence settles between them. 

“...I see you kept the fossil,” Young says, after what feels like an excruciating eternity. He's not even sure why he says it, and he's not sure the way Rush tightens his arms around himself and angles his head away is the reaction he'd hoped for. 

“I didn't know you cared,” Young says, and Jesus, why can't he just shut up. Rush is clearly not in the mood for joking about this right now. 

“I _don't_ ,” Rush says, pinning him down with a withering glare. Young would've believed him if it wasn't for the two splotches of red on his cheeks. “It is an interesting specimen, that's all.” 

“Alright,” Young says, aiming for placating but probably only halfway succeeding, if the way Rush narrows his eyes at him is anything to go by. “I'm, uh, going to take these to the observation deck.” 

Rush gives him another dirty look. “You do that, Colonel.” 

But Young doesn't forget. And when, two planets later, he finds a gemstone that looks like some sort of opalescent ruby, he can't curb his grin as he places it in Rush's palm. Rush just gives him an uncomprehending stare when he says, “It reminded me of you.” 

And if, a few weeks later, Young finds the glittering gem on top of Rush desk, he's not going to be the one to mention it. Not because he doesn't feel like teasing Rush about being a sentimental idiot, but because Rush's tongue in his mouth is making it hard to do anything other than push back until they're both completely unable to form a coherent sentence.


	52. “Jesus Christ, you're a fucking hitman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hitman!AU.

He wakes up within a millisecond. It's what he taught himself to do when his work phone trills. 

“Eagle,” he answers, and he prides himself on the fact that his voice doesn't even sound hoarse from sleep. 

“I have a job for you,” she says. He's never seen her. He has no idea what she looks like or how old she is, but her voice always sounds crisp and faultless when she speaks to him. Part of him is curious to find out more about her, but the professional inside him tells him it doesn't matter. She brings in the work, he follows through, she pays him. That's enough. “Twice the normal rate.” 

Jesus, someone must really want this one dead. “Who is it?” 

“Nicholas Rush. Lives at 241 Mill Street, Destiny, Maine,” she answers. “There's another thirty in it for you if you can get it done within two weeks.” 

The click on the other end of the line tells him she's hung up. 

Well, to Maine it is then. He sighs, already shrugging into his black shirt and work boots. If he goes now (which he will), he can make it there before noon tomorrow. 

It's not that he necessarily enjoys his work, but it pays the bills (and more), and he usually finds the people he's sent to kill are not... nice. He's gotten paid more than this, for important people. Politicians and heads of state, and once even for royalty. All of them had had something to hide, something to be put down for, and he is okay with balancing the playing field every once in a while, even if he's perfectly aware of the immorality of his job. 

The thing is, he thinks as he stakes out Rush's place, this man doesn't seem evil. This man doesn't seem like a corrupt financial mastermind, or like a power hungry criminal, or like the type to jump-start a genocide. Nicholas Rush just seems... sad. He's a math professor, and he goes to work in the morning and he comes back late at night, and in between it seems he does nothing at all. He doesn't pick up whores, and he certainly doesn't seem like the type to kill them and dispose of the bodies in any sort of terrible way. He doesn't start bar brawls simply so he can get away with bottling someone in the face. He doesn't really do anything other than look worn out and depressed when he has a day off. 

He kind of sympathizes, which he _knows_ is a terrible quality in an assassin. 

It doesn't help that Rush is oddly attractive. He's not pretty, necessarily. Not handsome in the way of the young Hollywood stars that keep getting in the news with who they're dating now. But there's something interesting about him. Those dark, sad eyes. The too long, wispy hair and the stubble that screams 'I'm not taking good care of myself because I'm lost and exhausted'. Those damn vests he keeps wearing underneath that suede jacket. It all makes for a strangely intriguing picture. 

Of course that won't stop him from doing his job. He's killed more beautiful people for less than what he's getting paid for this. But it does... it does make it harder, for some reason. 

Rush doesn't seem to realize that he's a target at all, either, which is another thing that gives him pause. It is much too easy to break into Rush's house, and he finds himself standing over the sleeping man, the syringe of insulin in his hand. Rush looks... he looks kind of precious, conked out like this. He's hugging a pillow to his chest, and his hair is obscuring half his face, but it's still easy to tell that he looks pained and unhappy, even in sleep. 

He takes too long observing the man, because suddenly Rush moves and his voice is shrill and panicked as he scrambles back against the headrest of the bed. “Who the fuck are you?” 

He isn't quite sure how to answer. Not because no one has ever asked him that question before, but because Rush's accent catches him unawares. How had he not known the man was Glaswegian? That seems like a pretty big thing to miss. 

It's also not relevant in the slightest, at the moment. 

Instead of lunging at the man and silencing him, though, he hears himself ask, “Can you think of a good reason why anyone would want you dead?” 

Rush closes his eyes for a second and shrinks even further into himself. “Jesus Christ, you're a fucking hitman.” 

He gives Rush a look that says, 'Yes, obviously,' and waits for him to respond to his question. His first gun is neatly tucked into his holster. His second gun is heavy in his inner pocket. His knife is safely secured in its ankle strap. He can overpower Rush within three seconds, if he has to. But he's curious for Rush's answer, because this man doesn't seem like his usual marks. Not at all. 

“I found a way to distribute power more efficiently,” Rush says, pressing his forehead into his fist and curling his legs up against his chest. There's not a single waver in his voice that shouldn't be there from fear. Rush is telling the truth, he's absolutely certain of that. “Solar power harvested in the Sahara could be sent to Europe with barely any loss of energy at all. The Americas, as well.” 

Jesus. 

This is just a matter of money. He hates himself for what he's chosen as a profession right this moment, because Rush doesn't deserve to die. He deserves a goddamn Nobel Prize. 

He can't kill him now, not knowing what he does, and _fuck_ , why did he get assigned this job anyway? They must have known he'd have a problem with this. He doesn't fucking _do_ innocent. They know that. 

“Please,” Rush says, finally looking up at him. “At least make it fast.” 

He feels his fingers flex around the syringe and puts it back into his pocket quietly. “Why are you so sad?” he asks. It shouldn't matter, but for some reason it really does. 

Rush narrows his eyes at him and seems to refind some of the fight inside of himself. “That is none of your fucking business.” 

And fine, he decides. Rush doesn't really owe him any explanations. 

“Look, I don't... I don't wanna kill you. I can make it look like you disappeared. You can bring your invention to the world from somewhere else, somewhere where no one will find you,” he offers, and Christ, he's talking about uprooting his own life right now. He's talking about never seeing Emily again, not even for their court appointed negotiations about the house and the money. 

But maybe this is more important. A cheap, renewable energy source... it would change the world. It could change _everything_. 

“My name is Everett,” he says, taking Rush's silence for the disbelief and the hope that it probably is. “And if you come with me, I'll keep you safe.”


	53. “You do realize everyone is going to know about us now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for I_kill_Zombies :)

Everything is screeching at him. The lights in the corridors are too bright, and people's voices are too harsh, and even the sound of his own clanging footsteps on the deck plating is making his head throb. It's almost a migraine – he knows, because he's had plenty of them – and Young appreciates that at least this one didn't go all-out, because he does not have _time_ to lie in bed all day with a pillow over his head to keep even the barest glints of light out. 

Still, he doesn't feel his best. Which is not an excuse, probably, but it does explain why he completely misses the presence of Eli and Park at one of the consoles when he walks inside the control interface room. 

“Rush,” he says, voice pitched low to keep from aggravating his headache. “Do you have my glasses?” 

The silence that falls over the room is almost deafening, and while Young appreciates that on a certain level, he also feels an odd suspicion that something is wrong. Rush gives him a look that is exasperated and disbelieving and maybe also a little bit defiant as he fishes around in his back pocket and hands Young his glasses. 

Ah. Good. At least now he can _see_ again. Even if he usually only needs them to read, when his head is pounding like this and every source of light is surrounded by pulsating, flaring coronas, they help him feel a little bit more human. 

“Eh, Colonel?” Eli asks from the corner of the room, and Young swivels around quickly enough to send a sharp stab through his brain. Jesus, how had he missed that there were other people here? “Are you guys stealing each other's glasses now, or something?” 

And what can he say to that, really? 'No, sometimes we just forget them in each other's quarters after sleeping together'? 'Sometimes making the most of the few precious minutes we have before the ship wakes up is more important than remembering where exactly our glasses or pencils or notebooks are'? 

Park elbows Eli in the side before Young can come up with an answer that isn't bloodcurdlingly honest, and Rush huffs out something dismissive before turning to his console again. Eli makes a small squeak of indignity or understanding or laughter, and Young decides they are okay right now. He may have just outed them to the entire ship, but Rush isn't blowing up, or running away, and Eli and Park aren't screaming at him, so... so things might be okay. Things are okay. 

“I take it you're headed to Lieutenant Johansen's infirmary now?” Rush asks pointedly, and Young doesn't really know how Rush figured out he's having a headache. 

“No, I'm fine,” he answers, feeling like Park and Eli are listening to every single word exchanged between them – which they probably are. He's not going to ask TJ for painkillers that could be put to better use. They don't have enough as it is, he's not going to make her give him what few scarce resources she has for something as trite as a headache. 

Rush snorts and shakes his head, and grabs Young's arm. “I'll be back in ten minutes,” he says over his shoulder, and then he's dragging Young along with him until they reach his quarters. 

“You,” Rush says, rummaging through one of his drawers before pressing a few ragged looking aspirins into Young's palm, “Are going to take these and shut up.” 

Young frowns. “Where did you even get these?” They'd run out of Earth drugs months ago. 

Rush shrugs. “Won them from Brody in a game.” 

Young feels his lips quirk up. “Rush...” 

Rush crosses his arms over his chest and glares at him. “What? You're going to confiscate them?” 

Young laughs, and damn, his head really is killing him, but Rush is being kind of adorable right now. “Thank you,” he says, popping the pills into his mouth and washing them down with the water from his canteen. 

When he looks back up, Rush looks a little milder. 

“You do realize everyone is going to know about us now?” Rush asks, and Young isn't entirely sure whether he sounds accusing or amused or a little insecure. 

Maybe Rush is worried how Young's going to deal with that, with their relationship being public knowledge. 

“Probably,” he says, with a small sigh. Then he steps closer and takes Rush's hands in his own. “Sorry about that.” 

“I don't care,” Rush says with a little shrug, but Young can hear the question underneath it. 

“I don't care either, Rush. Whatever happens, we'll deal with it.” 

Rush squeezes his hands and lets out a soft sigh of his own. “Okay.”

His head still hurts, and he's not looking forward to finding out whether there'll be consequences to his relationship with Rush. But Rush is here and Rush cares about him, so all in all Young thinks he can't complain. 


	54. “God, these people suck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Country club!AU.

“It is simply a matter of investing wisely,” his father says. He's in lecturing mode again, and it's taking everything Everett has not to roll his eyes and start another argument right in the middle of the Country Club's restaurant. “If they put in a bit more effort, a bit more forethought, they could be sitting at the table next to us.” 

Everett sees the waiter, not the one who's been serving their table, but the one who had caught his eye because he looks scruffier than any of the usual staff. His hair is almost shoulder length, messily tied back with a piece of string, and Everett is pretty sure his face isn't clean-shaven, although the guy hasn't come close enough to their table for him to be sure. 

The waiter's face is twisted up in an angry sneer, and he shoots a furious glare at Everett's father. The man doesn't notice, of course – he barely acknowledges staff anywhere, he doesn't care about anything other than the things they bring him – but it makes Everett feel strangely fond of this waiter guy. He wonders what his name is. He looks to be about the same age as him, and there's something elegant about the way he moves around the room with all those plates and glasses, although he looks pretty tightly wound at the same time. 

Next to Everett, his uncle loudly agrees with his father, adding his own barrage of right-wing bullshit to it, while his mother and his aunt discuss the lack of decorum Lydia Jones displayed by wearing pearls to Hans Rubenstein's funeral. God, Everett hates this. He wishes he was back at university right now, in his dorm room, away from his family. The semester starts in two weeks, and he's not sure how he's going to make it that long without punching his father at least once. The man is so out of touch with reality that it's almost funny. Everett knows, because he's seen a little bit of the real world. He's met students who work their asses off to pay for their meal plans and tuition, and who still need to bury themselves in debt in order to make ends meet. He knows he's in a privileged position because he'll never have to worry about that. He knows that if he'd been born to a family five miles down the road, he wouldn't have had all the opportunities he has now. He knows that being rich or poor isn't simply a matter of choice, or just 'working hard and smart', or whatever the hell his father wants to believe in order to feel more accomplished about his own wealth. 

Jesus, he has to get away from here for a little bit. 

“I need to use the bathroom,” Everett says, getting up from his seat and turning his back on the table. 

He finds himself leaning against the outside wall of the building, smoking a cigarette, when the angry waiter guy steps outside.

“Oh,” he says, clearly surprised to find someone standing here, near the employee entrance. 

“Hey,” Everett says, before the guy can... he's not sure. Tell him off, maybe. Or leave. “Everett. Sorry about my father.” 

The guy gives him a skeptical nod. “I'll go back inside.” He has an accent, Everett thinks. Scottish, maybe. 

“You want a smoke?” Everett offers him the pack. The guy looks at it like he's expecting the thing to spontaneously explode, but Everett nudges it against his hand until he accepts it. He still looks highly dubious about the whole thing, but he takes a cigarette and brings it to his lips anyway. Everett holds up his lighter and cups his hand around the end of the cigarette as he lights it for him. 

“So...” Everett says, noting that he was right about the stubble. Must be from at least three days. It looks oddly pleasing. “I've never seen you here before. What's your name?” 

“Nick,” the guy says after a few seconds of pause. “First week.” 

“They're gonna give you shit for the scruff,” Everett says, gesturing at his own jaw. 

Nick huffs out a breath that is somewhere between irritated and amused. “They already did.” 

Everett shakes his head. “God, these people suck.” 

“These people?” Nick asks, quirking his eyebrow up and looking Everett straight in the eye. “Like you weren't just finishing your filet mignon in there yourself?” 

Everett laughs then, because yeah, fair enough. “You paid attention to what I ordered? That's kind of flattering.” 

Nick rolls his eyes and refuses to dignify that with a response. 

When they finish their cigarettes Young offers Nick another one, but Nick shakes his head. “I should get back.” 

He starts to turn away, and Everett feels the sudden urge to grab his wrist and hold him here for a little bit longer. To feel Nick's skin, his heartbeat thrumming against his fingertips. “Wait,” he says instead. “Do you, uh... Do you wanna hang out sometime?” 

Nick looks like he's not quite sure what to make of him. “Are you trying to pick me up?” 

Maybe, Young thinks. The guy is plenty attractive. Besides, it would be hilarious to take him home for dinner – there's a reasonable chance at least one heart attack would follow suit. 

“No, I just... I really don't like being around,” he gestures at the inside of the restaurant, “ _those_ people all the time. This is the first conversation I've had all day that didn't make me want to stab myself in the eye.” 

Nick hums at him, like he's thinking it over. 

“Alright, Everett,” he says after a number of long, long moments have passed. “All my shifts this week end at nine.” 

“Here,” Everett says, grabbing the pen from Nick's breast pocket and scribbling his phone number down on the pack of cigarettes before taking a last one out of it for himself. “Let me know when you have time.” 

Nick cocks his head at him slowly as he takes the pack from Everett. He looks a little hesitant for a flash of a second, before saying, “I can do tonight.” 

“Oh,” Everett says, feeling his heart beat a rapid rhythm in the back of his throat. “Yes. Yeah. I can pick you up here?” 

“Okay,” Nick says. He glances down at the pack of cigarettes in his hand, and then back up to Everett with a little nod. Then he's gone, back inside the restaurant. 

Everett feels his lips quirk up as he lights his cigarette. Maybe coming home for the summer wasn't the worst decision ever, after all.


	55. “Eat something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for literallygold. :)

“Take her to the infirmary!” he shouts as soon as they're through the gate. Fuck. _Fuck_. Scott and James are at his side immediately, lowering Barnes' unconscious body onto one of the kino stretchers before rushing off to TJ and her limited supply of medicinals and her under-equipped surgery facilities. 

Young balls up his fist and rubs it over his forehead, unintendedly smearing a dark streak of blood onto his own skin, and Jesus, this whole mission was such a fucking clusterfuck. He doesn't know how he could've been so stupid, so _careless_ , and now Barnes might die because he didn't see it, he didn't see it until it was too late, and _dammit_! Why is he always too slow? Why do people keep getting hurt because of his shortcomings? 

His hands tremble, and he closes his eyes to take a deep breath – _suppress it, there is no time for this right now_. 

“How far out are the others?” he asks, turning to Brody and Volker who stand huddled together by their console. They both look pretty shaken up as well, Volker is pale as a sheet and Brody's mouth is turned down into a flat, hard line. 

Rush is... Rush is over at his own console, but Young can't look at him right now. Because if he does Rush will see everything, he'll read it right off his face – for how incomprehensible they find each other, Young doesn't think there's another person out there who understands him better. They've watched each other, studied each other, and Young does not have the mental fortitude to deal with Rush staring straight into the raw, gaping wound that is tearing him up inside right now. 

“They're about ten minutes out,” Brody answers without discernible inflection. “They're taking the same route back, everyone is fine.” All Young can hear is the unspoken 'For now'. 

Thankfully – and Young has to consciously remind himself to be grateful that things aren't worse than they already are – the second team makes it back to the ship safely, and by the time they jump back into FTL Barnes is out of surgery. 

She's still in critical condition, TJ says. They'll know more tomorrow. 

Young retreats to his quarters after updating Camile and the people closest to Barnes. He sits on his bed and rests his head in his hands and sighs, letting the day's stress and regret wash over him in debilitating waves. He would give anything right now to just switch places with Barnes. To have her be healthy and out of danger. 

His flask of Brody's liquor sits on the edge of his desk, tempting him with temporary oblivion and relief. He shouldn't... 

He startles when there's a soft knock on his door – he'd been pretty clear he didn't want to be disturbed, and the military personnel would have used the radio rather than coming over here if he was needed for something. He considers pretending he's not here, ignoring the person on the other side of the door. Before he can even come to a decision the door slides open and Rush steps through. 

Shit. Fuck. He'd rather see anyone else than have to deal with Rush right now. Because everything he knows to be true about himself, all the most horrible weaknesses he tries to conceal from the rest of the crew – Rush knows them, too. And he honestly doesn't think he can deal with Rush reprimanding him at the moment. 

He lets his head fall back into his hands, shoulders curling inwards as if to prepare for an attack, and refuses to look at Rush. 

“Colonel,” Rush says, and his voice is quiet, almost careful. Young doesn't respond, doesn't lift his head. He's shocked when Rush touches his shoulder – touch and Rush, he still hasn't figured out how to connect these two things – and then slides his hand down to take one of Young's hands away from his face. Young feels something smooth and cold brush against his fingertips, and opens his eyes to find Rush has brought him a bowl of food. 

“Eat something,” Rush says, and... what is this? Is Rush trying to... Does he want to make sure Young eats before chewing him out? It doesn't make sense, and it takes him an embarrassingly long time to consider that maybe Rush is simply trying to be nice. 

God, he doesn't even realize how hopeless he'd felt until it is contrasted by this small flicker of warmth in his chest. He tries to tamp it down – Rush can do enough damage as it is, he doesn't need to make it any easier for him – but the thought that maybe Rush is here not to berate him, but to support him... 

He looks up at Rush, pretty certain his poker face is shit right now, and accepts the bowl of slop. Rush frowns at him, and then surprises Young further by sitting down on the bed next to him. The mattress gives a little under their combined weight, and he feels himself cant slightly into Rush. He isn't sure how to react to this, the unexpected kindness, the physical proximity, so he decides to stay quiet and brings a spoonful of protein paste to his lips. 

“You need to stop blaming yourself for everything that goes wrong,” Rush says. 

Young is quiet for a long time. “It's my responsibility.” 

Rush looks at him, he can see it from the corner of his eye, but Young prefers to shield himself right now, so he continues gazing into the unappetizing slush in his metal bowl. 

“Colonel,” Rush says again, and Young holds perfectly still when Rush's hand lands in the crook of his elbow, not squeezing or holding, just resting there. “Your responsibility is leading these people to the best of your abilities. Accidents can and will happen. It's in nobody's interest to descend into self-loathing and guilty recriminations every time someone gets hurt.” 

Young makes a sound that might have been a snort if he'd felt less unbalanced. So basically Rush is saying, 'Suck it up because feeling bad is a waste of time,' isn't he? In a way... In a way it's exactly what he'd expected from Rush. And in a way, it actually kind of helps. 

“Barnes will be alright. She's in good hands,” Rush says softly, making Young look up in shock. _That_ was unexpected. That was a platitude, one of those social niceties Rush so loathes. 

The moment passes, and Rush lets his hand slide away from Young's elbow. 

Young finishes the rest of his slop. 

They sit together in silence, and Young expects Rush to get up and leave any minute now. Every moment he doesn't feels like a gift and a curse. The tension building between them might be apprehension or anticipation, he's not sure. 

“Rush,” he says when the discomfort becomes too hard to ignore. 

“Yeah?” Rush answers, sounding exactly how Young feels: hopeful and wary and oddly intense.

“Thanks.” 

Rush nods at him, then, and the tension... it doesn't quite break, but it eases into something smoother. 

And maybe, Young thinks, letting the warmth of Rush's shoulder seep into his own. Maybe they're learning. Maybe they're getting better. Because the hard days are just as hard as they always were, but right now Rush is here, and Rush is on his side, and... and maybe that's more than he ever dared hope for.


	56. "It was my fault."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Oriberry. :)

It's his day off. He has a trunk full of groceries and the rest of the day to prepare and marinade the meat. Make some salads and maybe some fruit punch or something. Get everything set up for the barbecue tonight. 

It isn't really his idea of a good time, but David had said he needed to get out more. He needed to stop moping around and interact with people again. Deep down Young had known he was right. And much as he's tried to pretend that his new house is temporary, the harsh truth is that it isn't. If he's going to be living here for a while, he should probably get to know some of his neighbors. Hence the barbecue. 

So far, everyone he's spoken to about it seems very enthusiastic. Much more enthusiastic than he feels, himself. Still, it'll be good. 

He gets shocked out of his rather shitty attempt at amping himself up for tonight by the radio. God fucking _dammit_. He's trying not to think about Emily and the divorce and everything that he should've done different, better, when he still had the chance. He fumbles with the radio controls, refuses to be sucked into melancholy and heartache at the dulcet tones of the song they'd played at their wedding ('Kiss from a Rose', and how long has it been since they listened to that together? How many anniversaries have gone by where he completely forgot how much she loved it?). 

He's too engrossed in finding another channel, and he slams his foot on the brake too late – the low impact of the crash rocks him forward and the sound of scraping metal and breaking glass lets him know he did something stupid. The car in front of him is standing still at a red light and Young buries his head in his hands with a growled “ _Fuck_ ,” before getting out of his car and walking over to the person in the black Audi he just hit. 

“Sorry, are you okay?” he asks, when the man opens his window. He looks to be a few years older than him, eyes dark and hair an odd combination of 'I don't give a fuck' and fashion magazine stylish. 

“I'm fine,” he drawls in a bit of an unfamiliar brogue, giving Young a look like he thinks he's an idiot. 

“I was...” Young says, wondering whether he should tell this guy he wasn't paying attention because was fiddling with his radio. Maybe not, the man already seems to think he's unfit to drive. “It was my fault.” 

The light turns green again, and a car behind them honks. 

“Obviously,” the other man says, dragging his hand through his hair. Young has to fight the urge to roll his eyes and tell the guy he's being a dick. 

“Look, can we get to the side of the road for a bit, exchange insurance information?” he asks instead. Because they're holding up traffic, two cars are already doing some less than safe maneuvering to get past them, and he feels uneasy as the line of cars behind them keeps growing. 

“I really don't have time for this,” the man says, flicking his eyes over to the stoplight and sighing in annoyance when he finds it's gone back to red. “Let's just leave it.” 

Young frowns. “What?” 

“I'm already late,” the man says irately, “and I can't afford to be even later. I don't have _time_ to fill out an entire insurance form. In fact, I don't have time to argue with you about this. See it as a lucky break if you must. I'll deal with the damage myself.” 

“Wait,” Young says. He's not sure why he does it, but he pulls his pen out of his pocket and scribbles his personal phone number on the back of one of his business cards. “We can handle it later. Call me when you do have time.” 

The man in the car looks at him like he's trying to hand over a highly unstable chemical, but when Young doesn't move, he accepts the card reluctantly. 

“Everett,” he says, introducing himself belatedly. “Everett Young.” 

“Yes,” Rush says, after flicking his eyes over his card and tossing it on the empty passenger seat. There's a hint of amusement in his voice. “I can read.” 

Young does roll his eyes, this time. He has the absurd urge to invite him over to his barbecue tonight. He doesn't, though, because clearly the man has other plans. Important plans. Besides, Young's sure this guy does great at parties. 

“Well, this has been a pleasure,” the man says in a tone of voice that isn't necessarily rude, but somehow still dripping with sarcasm. 

“Your name?” Young asks, because right now all he knows is that the guy drives a black Audi A4 and that he's kind of an ass. And maybe a little bit attractive, too. In the right light. When he smirks like that.

“I'll call you,” the man says, not answering, and then the stoplight turns green again and he's off. Young shakes his head and walks back over to his car. As he gets in and manages to squeeze through the intersection right before the light turns red again, he has a sudden fantasy of following the damaged car he can still see a hundred yards ahead of him. To find out where it was the man had to go so urgently. 

He shakes his head again, because that is just creepy, and also: why the hell does he even care? So he goes home, and he puts the beer and coke on ice, and he makes marinades for the chicken and the lamb chops, and then he washes and dices vegetables for the salads. The entire afternoon he keeps wondering whether he's ever going to see the man again. 

He's not sure why, because his insurance rates are going to go up if he claims this damage, but still he hopes that the man will call him. 

It's three days before an unknown number pops op on his cell phone. Young could say he'd all but forgotten about the incident with the car crash, but it'd be a lie. A pretty transparent one. 

“Hello?” he answers, pathetically hopeful it's the man from the accident. 

“Rush,” the familiar voice on the other end of the line says. “Nicholas Rush.” 

Young huffs a laugh, because there's something funny about the man just assuming he made enough of an impression that Young would immediately know who he is and what he's calling about. Even more so because he's right. 

“Alright, can I call you Nicholas?” he asks. 

“Most people call me Rush,” the man hedges, which is not really an answer. Young shrugs. He'll work up to it, then. Maybe. 

“Well,” he says, and he's not quite sure what possesses him to ask, but the next words out of his mouth are, “Would you like to get a coffee downtown and fill out those insurance forms?” 

It's quiet on the other end of the line for a few long moments. “We can do it over the phone,” Rush says, and for a quick second Young feels embarrassed and turned down and just plain stupid, but then he realizes that maybe it wasn't so much a rejection as a question. 

He shrugs again, attempts to sound as casual as possible, and answers, “We can, if that's what you want. But I could go for a coffee right about now, and I need to be downtown to bring my car to the garage anyway.” 

Again, Rush is quiet for a few beats. “Alright,” he says eventually. “I can be at Seventh and Spring in an hour. Place called Mason's Coffee.” 

Young feels a slow smile spread over his face. “I'll be there.” Without another word, Rush hangs up. Young lets out a hard breath. 

He doesn't even know why, but he can't wait to see Rush again.


	57. "We're alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For GameofTywinning. :)

“We're alone,” Rush says, flicking his eyes up from his console to Young. The Colonel is sitting in the command chair, looking very much like the ship's commanding officer. Rush can't deny that the sight inspires a number of lewd thoughts. It's not a problem, because he knows Young has the same thoughts about him. It's taken them way too long to act on them, but ever since last week it's been... When they finally came together – figuratively as well as literally – it was like all the months, all the _years_ of built up lust and frustration suddenly exploded. It feels like they haven't done anything but fuck since that Wednesday, and God, Rush doesn't feel like slowing down anytime soon. 

“We are?” Young asks dryly, letting his chin rest on his hand and watching Rush with a raised eyebrow. 

“Yes.” Rush presses a few buttons. The soft 'snick' of the door being locked is just loud enough to be heard. “And we will be, for some time.” 

“We will?” Young asks, tone still not betraying anything but the vaguest hint of interest. 

Rush gets up from his seat and walks over to the command chair until he can lean his hands on the armrests to look down at Young's face from up close. “Stop asking stupid questions.” 

Young lets his lips curl up into something that isn't quite a smile before putting his hands on the backs of Rush's thighs and yanking him forward, lifting him up so that he's basically straddling Young in the chair. It's not comfortable – there's hardly enough room here for both of them – but Rush doesn't mind a little discomfort, and neither does Young, so he ignores the way the armrests are pushing into his legs and lets his hands fly up to grab Young's jaw, angling his face up to him a little. 

“I like how you look in this chair,” Rush growls, before pressing a hard, nipping kiss into Young's bottom lip. Young's hands slide from Rush's thighs to the small of his back, a warm weight that makes it easier to keep his balance. 

“Enough to wanna suck my cock while I sit in it?” Young murmurs, leaning forward into Rush's space to chase another kiss. Rush evades him, lets his hands stroke over the skin of Young's jaw, his cheeks, and into his hair, cupping the back of Young's head. 

“Enough to want to _fuck_ you while you sit in it,” he answers darkly, and Young's lips quirk up into something amused and playful. 

“If anyone is getting fucked here today, it's you,” Young says, opening Rush's belt one-handedly before letting both hands wriggle inside the waistband of Rush's jeans and squeezing his buttocks possessively. One of Young's fingers pushes against his opening, and Rush is torn between cursing himself for letting Young talk him into forgoing underwear today and pressing back into the touch. 

“Tell you what, Rush,” Young rumbles at him, slowly working his dry finger inside of him. “Why don't you sit in the chair and let me get down on my knees for you, suck you off just the way you like it. Let you come down my throat.” Rush lets out a breathless little sound and squirms as Young pumps his finger in and out of him slowly. It's not exactly comfortable without any lube, but it doesn't hurt. “And then, when you're all soft and hazy from that, you can sit in my lap and ride my dick.” 

Jesus, sometimes Young has such a dirty mouth. He says it like he's completely serious, too. Rush feels his cock push painfully against the teeth of his zipper. 

“Would you like that?” Young asks, looking up at him with a little smirk. Rush is still holding Young's head between his hands, and while it should make him feel in control, the way Young is casually fingering his arse kind of ruins that. He's not going to let Young know that, though. 

“Mm,” he says, feigning indifference. “You _do_ make a nice picture on your knees, Colonel.” 

Young's smirk grows wider, and then his finger is gone and Rush is being lifted up and deposited back into the chair as Young sinks to the floor between Rush's legs. He puts his hands on the crotch of Rush's jeans impatiently, like he can't wait to see his cock again even though it's been less than seven hours since Young woke him up with sucking kisses on his neck and a slick hand on his prick. 

“Careful,” Rush hisses, slipping his own fingers inside of his waistband to cup his erection as Young lowers his zipper. He lifts his hips and lets Young drag his trousers down to his ankles, and then he waits for Young to help him out of his shoes before stripping his lower body completely. When Young is done he moves forward again, between Rush's thighs, and makes an appreciative sound at the sight of Rush's cock - curved and stiff and _ready_. 

“You got this hard from just one finger?” Young asks teasingly, leaning forward to lap a quick trail up the side of Rush's prick. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Rush groans, tangling his fingers in Young's hair and pulling him forward until he makes an amused sound and slides his mouth down over his tip. 

Young doesn't mind when he gets rough with this – part of Rush even suspects he gets off on having his mouth fucked - so he barely waits for Young to position himself right before bucking his hips up into Young's throat. Young makes a little noise, somewhere between protest and surprise and a humming moan, before setting up a firm rhythm on Rush's cock. God, yeah, Young is fucking marvelous at this, bobbing up and down and swallowing around him. His fingers tug lightly on his balls before creeping lower, in between the chair and Rush's arse, to play over his entrance again. 

Rush throws his head back and lets out an embarrassing sound when Young speeds up his movements – the slick heat around his cock becoming nearly unbearable – and presses down hard on that place right behind his balls, making a hard spike of pleasure rocket up his spine. 

“Fuck, yes, come on, come on,” he babbles yanking Young's hair to drive his cock even deeper inside his throat, and Young almost gags, swallows convulsively and moans in a way that might be a complaint or might be pure arousal, and Rush's orgasm slams into him like a wrecking ball. He bucks his hips up and tightens his hands in Young's hair as his prick pulses in Young's mouth, spills itself down Young's throat, and Jesus, _yes_. A sparking pleasure spreads outwards until his entire body is tingling. 

By the time Young slides his mouth off his cock Rush feels like his bones are made of rubber. Young chuckles, and God, Rush loves the way his voice sounds, all raw and hoarse after letting Rush fuck his throat like that. He makes a small yelping sound when Young's arms suddenly yank him down to the floor and twist him so that his knees are on the ground and his chest comes to lie on the seat of the chair, his backside exposed to the air. It barely takes Young two seconds to flip open the bottle of lube from his pocket, coat his fingers with it and press two of them inside Rush. 

“Love having you all fucked out like this,” Young rasps, biting into the flesh of one of his buttocks. Rush mewls and hides his head in his arms, because Jesus, he loves and hates that Young can reduce him to this. Young works him open quickly, spreading his fingers and adding some lube before pushing in a third. He rucks Rush's shirts up higher so he can press long, sucking kisses into the ridge of his spine until Rush is squirming, pushing back against Young's hand, moving up into the hot pressure of his mouth. 

“Jesus, Young, I'm ready,” Rush pants when Young seems content to keep fingering him until he fucking begs for it. 

“I know,” Young says against his skin. Rush can hear the heated amusement in his tone of voice, and it sends a shiver down his neck. Young takes out his fingers and moves back. Rush hears him open his trousers, and then Young's hands are on him again, manhandling him until he's straddling Young's lap in the chair, hands on Young's shoulders for balance, knees pressing painfully into the armrests. Young angles his cock up and uses his other hand to guide Rush down onto him. 

Rush hasn't done this more than five times in total, but he's already come to the conclusion that he loves the feeling of Young entering him. That ridge where his cock goes from head to shaft is starting to feel like something he'll recognize forever, and Jesus, he's not sure why this is turning him on so much because his prick isn't even hard, and it's not going to get hard again anytime soon, either. 

Young puts both hands on Rush's waist and pulls him down until they're flush together, and Rush feels something deep and profound tremble at the base of his spine. He moans a soft curse and opens his eyes to see Young staring at him, flushed and open-mouthed and goddamn delighted. 

“You are so fucking gorgeous,” Young says, not waiting for Rush to answer before moving in for a sloppy kiss, and Rush can't help the little sounds spilling into Young's mouth as he starts moving. Small movements of his hips, fast but shallow. Young moans appreciatively and then he thrusts up in counterpoint, taking it deeper, harder. Before long they're fucking with wild abandon. 

Sometimes Young manages to hit his prostate, and it's a pleasure Rush hadn't known before this thing with Young started. But even when he doesn't, the slide of Young's hard flesh feels good. It does something to him, the knowledge that Young is inside of him, taking him, claiming him in this primitive, animalistic way. He wonders if it's the same for Young when Rush is the one fucking him. The thought makes something nervous and hot skitter through his belly. 

“Rush, Rush,” Young bites out, groaning deeply against Rush's lips. “Shit, I'm gonna—” He surges up, makes another breathy noise, and tenses. Rush feels his balls contract at the idea that Young is coming inside of him right now, drenching him, dirtying him up in the basest sense possible. 

“Oh my God,” Young pants after a few seconds, hiding his face in Rush's neck and letting out a shaky laugh. “I'm never gonna be able to sit in this chair again.” 

Rush lets his arms wrap around Young's neck and presses his cheek against the side of Young's face with a chuckle. 

He's already contemplating which area of Destiny he's going to sully in Young's mind forever next.


	58. "I'm in love with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dragon AU!

“Hey,” Young says, stepping into Rush's cave like he owns the place. Rush pretends his hearts don't flutter at the sight of him. It's been weeks, nearly three, and a small, pathetic part of him always worries Young will never come back, every time he leaves. 

Rush stretches his wings and gives Young a small nod. 

“I take it the raid went well?” he asks, already feeling his lips curl up in amusement. 

“It wasn't a raid, Rush,” Young says with a small eye roll. They have this conversation almost every time Young comes back from his travels. “But yeah, better than expected.” 

Good. That's good. The few times things had gone wrong, when Young had lost people, he'd been withdrawn and despondent for weeks. Rush very much prefers him like this, happy and proud and best friends with the type of creature his kind usually hunts. 

Sometimes Rush wonders if it had been a mistake to take Young in, all those years ago. He'd found him at the bottom of a ravine, unconscious and bloody, leg bent at an awkward angle. He obviously wouldn't have eaten Young – humans come up with the most insulting dragon lore – but there was no real reason to pick him up and bring him to his cave. He didn't have to set Young's leg and fashion a splint of sorts, and he certainly didn't have to share his own food with Young while the man recovered enough to hobble his way back home with his makeshift crutches. 

It had come as a shock, to see Young again a month later. Or, well, not entirely. He'd half expected Young to show up again, a horde of angry men at his back, to chase Rush out of his cave. He'd already moved his belongings to another cave in preparation. A worse one, much smaller and kind of cold and dank compared to his current abode. But Young had shown up alone, with a smile that was almost shy and a magical cup that, once filled with a liquid, would stay full until it was held upside down and completely emptied out. It had been the beginning of the deepest – well, truthfully, the _only_ – friendship Rush has ever experienced. 

Young is... he's clever, for a human. He's kind and strong and sometimes his sense of humor is so dry it startles Rush into coughing out an unintended bout of smoke. The thing is, before knowing Young, he hadn't been lonely. He'd lived on his mountain and he'd protected his hoard from looters, like any self-respecting dragon should. But it wasn't until after Young started showing up all the time – making the half-day hike up to Rush's cave without even once complaining about it – that Rush realized he'd been _alone_ all this time. 

“I got you something,” Young says, rummaging through his pack and retracting his hand with an accomplished little grin. That's another thing he lo... likes about Young. Young keeps bringing him gifts. Magical artifacts, sometimes things that would make him a rich man if he just sold them instead of using them to pay off some kind of debt Rush feels has been paid ten times over simply with his company. Young doesn't care much for riches. He's a knight, from a long family line of royalty and warriors. He could never work another day for the rest of his life and his grandchildren would still be able to live comfortably. 

Young takes out... something. Rush can't make out what it is, but it seems to be some sort of bundled up fabric. “What is it?” he asks, unable to contain his curiosity. 

Young's grin turns a little proud and a little cunning as he steps closer to Rush. “It's a cloak that gives its wearer any disguise they please.” 

Rush cocks his head. It probably doesn't work on dragons. It's stupid to even think it might. 

Young comes to a stop next to him. He's not a particularly tall human, but Rush is a particularly small dragon, and Young barely has to stand up on his tiptoes to spread the cloak across Rush's shoulders. And oh, that feels weird. He hadn't been actively aware he'd been trying to look human, but one look at his... shit, his _hands_ , scaleless, pale skin and harmless, blunt fingernails – and he realizes that's exactly what he'd wanted. 

“Wow,” Young breathes, eyes wide and fixed on Rush's own. “You...” 

Rush casts his gaze aside, it's odd to have to cant his head slightly up to look at Young now, and the blood rushing under the skin of his cheeks must be much more visible in this shape. 

Young touches him, then, trails his fingers over the naked skin of Rush's forearm, and it feels different, in human skin. Sometimes Young touches him in his dragon form, of course, but without the armor of his scales it feels so much more intense. He shivers and watches his flesh pimple up in little goosebumps where Young's fingers stroke over his skin. When he looks up at Young, the man is smiling at him. 

“Don't get me wrong, I love the way you normally look. But it's definitely easier like this, to, uh...” Young looks kind of insecure for a bit, and then he steps forward, slots his lips against Rush's. Rush is stunned, mostly. He's not quite sure what Young thinks he's doing, but he knows enough about humans to know that they only kiss like this when they're romantically involved. 

“Young?” he asks, drawing back, oddly terrified he's misinterpreting this whole thing. 

Young gives him a guilty look, something unhappy tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sorry, I... I thought maybe, but I guess... I'm sorry. You can get rid of the cloak. I get it.” 

“Young?” Rush asks again, gripping Young's wrists in his human hands – and it's nice that he doesn't have to worry about hurting Young like this, because his own hands are even more fragile than Young's – and refusing to let go. “I thought you were just trying to repay a debt,” he says quietly. 

Young frowns. “What?” 

“The gifts. Coming to see me all the time. I thought you were still trying to repay me for saving your life.” 

The expression on Young's face softens, and he shakes his head. “You're an idiot.” 

Rush ruffles and glares at Young. He gets the impression it's not nearly as intimidating as it is in his dragon form. Not that Young usually seems overly impressed with his dragon glare, either. 

“I'm in love with you, Rush.” 

Rush feels himself let out a shuddery sigh. He leans forward until he can bump his forehead against Young's, a much less bewildering form of affection for a dragon than pressing their soft and squishy lips together. Although he does want to try that again, too. “Okay,” he answers quietly, not entirely sure this is even really happening. 

Young huffs out a breath and turns his head to the side a little to press a soft kiss into Rush's cheek. “So, do you want me to try the cloak now? See what I'll be like as a dragon?” 

Rush lifts his head, because _yes_ , interesting. Young looks happy, smiling at him with an amount of relief that radiates all over his face, uncurling his shoulders. 

“Yes,” Rush says, feeling his own mouth curve up into a smile in response. “But first I want you to kiss me again.”


	59. "Is there a reason why you make everything so hard on yourself?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After watching Priest with GameofTywinning, how could I not do a priest AU?

It happens on a Tuesday. Which is a useless little detail in the grand scheme of things, but it matters, for some reason. They're in the kitchen. Outside the night sky looms deep and dark, the only points of illumination the waxing moon and the tiny pinpricks of stars peeking out from behind the occasional cloud. 

Young is shuffling through his papers, working on his sermon, sipping coffee with too much sugar and letting out the odd grumble at Rush. Father O'Neill isn't in, and Rush remembers first coming here and realizing the man wasn't quite as holy in his behavior as he was in his convictions. It had rankled him, back then. He'd confronted the man, and he'd argued with Young, because Young just seemed to accept that Father O'Neill was in a relationship with Doctor Carter. That he was spitting in the face of God with his behavior and that he seemed to have no intention of stopping. Young had not let the argument become as heated as Rush wanted it to, refused to take any of the bait Rush was pelting him with, and simply stated that being a good priest isn't about who one loves. 

It's a constant point of contention between them, actually. Not O'Neill – since coming here Rush has been learning that the rigidity of the Church's rules serves to constrict and complicate the act of helping and guiding his flock more often than not. He's actually found himself admiring Father O'Neill and his straightforward way of doing what's right rather than doing it the right way, despite the fact that he clearly does not approve of _all_ of O'Neill's philosophies. 

No, the point of contention between Rush and Young is not Father O'Neill. It's that Young insists on interpreting everything _wrong_. Or, perhaps not entirely wrong, but with so much peace-love-happiness bollocks that Rush thinks he'd be more at home in a hippie commune than in the Catholic Church. Rush leans his hip against the kitchen counter and pours himself another cup of coffee. Strong and black, just the way he needs it. At least Young knows how to brew a good pot of coffee. Even if he's an idealistic idiot who refuses to face the fact that not everything is about the innate goodness in people. If it was, there wouldn't need to be any rules. God wouldn't have had to decree that stealing, cheating, hurting others, _killing_ is wrong. He wouldn't have had to design a way to punish the sinners, because there wouldn't _be_ any sinners. Free will means the potential for evil, and mankind seems insistent on proving time and time again that they are more than capable of just that. 

Young often gives him a look that is somewhere between pitying and amused, and calls him inventive variations on the word 'pessimist'. Every time he does Rush feels something hot and dangerous prickle up his skin. At first it had been little more than outrage, or maybe simple irritation. Or perhaps it had always been something more, right from the start. It doesn't matter, he supposes, because it doesn't make his problem any less of a problem. 

“Rush?” Young says, breaking him out of his reverie and making his heart rate trip in a little hop-skip that feels deeply uncomfortable. “You've been staring at me for the past three minutes.” 

Fuck, had he? He shakes his head and hides his face by taking another sip of coffee. Suddenly Young gets up, moves closer to him, and shit, what is he doing? Why is this making his palms sweat? Nervous eels crawl around in his lower belly as Young leans in, sleeve brushing against Rush's arm as he grabs the coffee pot and pours himself another cup. Rush closes his eyes for a second, forces himself to calm down. To loosen his posture until he feels less like a rabbit frozen in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Good God, he can not be having these feelings. Not for anyone, but certainly not for _Young_. 

When he opens his eyes again Young has turned around, leaning against the counter next to him as he empties two packets of sugar into his coffee. He stirs it almost meditatively, and Rush can't help his gaze raking over the simple beauty of his hands, broad and capable and somehow also oddly vulnerable, although Rush can't say what makes him think that. He can't say what makes him a think a lot of the things he thinks about Young. 

“Is there a reason why you make everything so hard on yourself?” Young says into the tense stillness, and Rush expects to find his eyes glittering at him, mocking him, but instead he just looks pensive. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, even if large part of him would rather ignore the question and walk out of the kitchen. But there is no way Young knows what he was thinking just now. His question must be about something else. 

Except maybe it isn't, because Young is leaning in again, sleeve brushing against Rush's arm, and this time he's not reaching for the coffee. The kiss feels like shock and inevitability, wrong and right and so fucking good that Rush finds himself gasping into it, half-empty mug tumbling to the floor and shattering on the tiled floor. He ignores it, doesn't pay any mind to the way the leg of his jeans is splattered in warm coffee, because Young is kissing him. Young is kissing him, licking gently into his mouth, tangling their tongues together, and all Rush can think is 'yes' and, 'oh God,' and, 'he puts too much sugar in his coffee'. 

He breaks away when he realizes he's making breathless, moaning noises into Young's mouth. He's not sure how he finds himself here, fingers clamped tightly in Young's sweater, face flushed and head spinning with such conflicting desires he feels he might damage something in his brain. 

“Wh...” he says. “W...” 

“Rush,” Young answers, stroking a hand over his cheek and settling the other hand down on Rush's shoulder. His thumb comes to rest against his throat, rubbing up and down in a way that is probably meant to soothe. “It's okay.” 

And no, it isn't. It really, truly is anything _but_ okay. Because he's a priest, they both are, and these desires are sinful in their own right, but acting on them is so much worse. 

He's going to Hell. 

He's going to Hell and he's going to drag Young right along with him, because all he mutters is “Shut up,” before yanking Young forward and kissing him again.


	60. "Happy birthday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** If dubcon/noncon is triggering to you, you might want to skip this one.

Rush lets out an offended yelp when Young yanks him off-balance and pushes him up against the metal beam in the center of the shuttle. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands, trying to ignore the way his heart thumps a panicky rhythm in his chest. He struggles against the hold on his shoulders, but Young's hands are strong, pinning him, holding him still with ease. 

“Shut up, Rush,” Young growls, moving his arm until it's cinched across Rush's throat, keeping him in place as his other hand steals down to his own crotch. Rush watches with disbelief as Young undoes his belt buckle one-handedly. Jesus Christ, this isn't happening. There is no goddamn way this is happening. A sharp stab of fear runs through him and he struggles again, only to have Young casually cut off his air supply. “Stay still.” 

Young slides the leather belt out of the loops on his trousers, and in a quick flurry of movement he grabs Rush's hands and pushes them together, behind the pole, before twisting the belt around them, effectively tying him up. He's tied up, in the middle of the shuttle, and they're still two hours out from Destiny, and oh shit oh shit oh _shit_. 

“Colonel,” Rush says, breaths coming in shallow pants as the full reality of his situation crashes over him. “You don't want to do this.” 

Young glances at him, a dark smile curling his lips. He doesn't even _look_ like himself. “Oh, but I do.” 

Rush swallows thickly, forces himself to keep eye contact with Young. “What are you going to do?” 

Young takes Rush's chin in his hand, fingers scratching gently through the beard on his jaw. “Whatever I want.” Rush shivers. “Aw, come on, Rush, don't look so worried. I'll make sure you enjoy yourself.” 

A sudden bout of rage makes Rush kick out, aiming for Young's knee. Young avoids him easily and chuckles. 

“Fuck you!” Rush spits. 

Young's gaze goes from amused to contemplative, and then back to amused. “You don't like the idea of liking it, do you?” 

Rush glares harder and refuses to answer. Fuck Young. Fuck him so much. 

Young steps closer again, presses into his space until he can hardly breathe anymore. “I can work with that,” he says, lips moving against the shell of Rush's ear. Rush feels another tremor rocket up his spine, and he jumps when Young's hands are suddenly on him, playing over his groin and unbuckling his belt. Young moves away a bit, watches Rush strain and thrash against the leather keeping his wrists tied behind his back, narrowly avoids a kick to the shin. 

“Calm the fuck down, Rush,” he snarls, grabbing Rush by the hair and jerking his head to the side. His other hand closes loosely around his throat – not squeezing, just warning. Rush pants, curses, and gives in. Young doesn't say anything, simply removes his hands and quickly opens up Rush's trousers, yanking them down to his ankles. “That's better,” he says with a little smile. “No more kicking now.” 

Rush takes a shaky breath, feeling terrified and on display in his underwear. Knowing it's only a matter of time before Young won't even let him have that scant layer of modesty. Fuck, it's demeaning, and he hates himself because a part of him enjoys that. 

“Mm,” Young says, slipping his fingers under Rush's shirt, scratching lightly over the skin of his belly. “Let's see if we can get you hard.” 

Rush jerks away. Away from the hand on his stomach, away from the words, away from the fucking monster in front of him. But Young just moves with him, laughing at him, and then he grabs Rush's hips in a bruising grip and sinks to his knees. 

Rush makes a desperate sound when Young rubs his nose against his prick through fabric that is threadbare from age and the many, many washes since coming to Destiny. He's still flaccid, but Young is on his knees, nuzzling at his cock, and in a different setting this would most certainly have the potential of finding its way into his fantasies. He's going to get hard, and he can't, he can't... It will be too humiliating. Too... _fuck_!

“No,” he says, voice cracking painfully. “Colonel, please don't.” 

Young pulls away from his crotch, thank God, and looks up at him. 

The small sliver of hope in his chest is crushed instantly when he sees Young's expression. Christ, that is not the face of someone who has seen reason, or someone who is willing to indulge the pleas of his captive. That is the face of someone who knows he's won. Someone who is planning to enjoy his spoils to the fullest. 

“Shh,” Young says. If he's aiming for comforting he fails miserably. Rush feels a sob gather in the back of his throat when Young starts massaging his cock with his hand. Light touches, squeezes, just enough pressure to feel good. He bends forward again and starts placing little kisses on the skin above his waistband, and Rush feels his eyes sting when his cock begins to fill out. He can't help it, he can't stop it, and he knows this is just a physiological response – there's nothing he can do to keep it from happening – but it doesn't _feel_ that way. He blinks the blur out of his vision and grits his teeth to keep in the small noises that want to spill out of his mouth. Young looks up at him again, smug and mean and terrible. “There you go.” 

“No,” Rush mutters brokenly, as Young peels off his underwear. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.” 

“Uncut,” Young remarks, touching his foreskin and sliding it up over the tip of his cock. “You must be so sensitive here,” he says, before pulling his foreskin down until his entire head is visible. He's fully hard, now, prick standing proudly while Rush himself feels debased, degraded in the worst way possible. Young leans forward and licks him, a slow lap that goes right over the slit in his cock, and Rush sobs. 

“You like this?” Young asks, lips dragging over the shaft of his erection. He kisses Rush's cock, little pecks and lingering nibbles that feel even crueler than his question. 

“No,” he chokes out, tears gathering in his eyes as Young sucks his head into his mouth and drags a moan out of him. 

Young pulls back. “Liar.” He licks a long stripe from the base all the way to the tip, lapping over his head a few times and making an amused sound. “I can taste your precome. You're _leaking_.” 

And Rush feels like something breaks inside him. 

Young swallows him down, sucks and licks and tortures him until he's crying, and it all feels so good that it hurts, everything _hurts_ , and he can't stop moaning through his sobs as Young refuses to let up. 

“No, _no_ ,” he wails, hips bucking in desperate surrender as his orgasm is ripped out of him. 

Fuck, oh God, Jesus fucking Christ. Rush feels his knees buckle and crashes to the floor, tears on his face and breath coming in heaving pants. 

The first thing he notices when he opens his eyes again is Young. Beautiful Young, looking at him with that warm little smile, wiping the wet salt and the pain from his face with careful fingers. “You okay?” he asks, reaching behind Rush with one hand to undo the belt around his wrists. Rush has to collect all his willpower to nod. 

“Was that...” Young says, looking a bit uncomfortable now. “Was that what you had in mind?” 

Rush flops forward, rests his head and his chest against Young's sturdy frame and closes his eyes again. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Better.” 

Young circles his arms around Rush's back and makes a small sound as he levers both of them up to standing. 

“Take a nap, I'll wake you up before we get there,” he says, pressing a small kiss into Rush's hair and depositing him into one of the seats that line the walls of the shuttle. Buckling him in so he won't slide out. 

Rush makes a sleepy noise in assent. He's almost halfway gone already, drifting in a warm, hazy daze. “Colonel?” he mumbles, hearing Young's footsteps stop.

“Yeah?” 

“...Thank you.” 

He doesn't have the energy to look up at Young. He doesn't even have the energy to stay awake for all of Young's answer. But he knows the man is smiling at him. 

“You're welcome, Rush. Happy birthday.”


	61. "Benzene."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a follow-up to the previous drabble, because your comments were amazing and they made me realize I couldn't quite leave it there. Thank you to everyone who stuck with the story despite the lack of proper warnings!

His hands won't stop shaking. It started almost as soon as Rush fell asleep, and it still hasn't stopped. 

He checks the shuttle systems and makes a number of small, unnecessary alterations to their course back to Destiny. His fingers tremble so badly it takes him almost twice as long as usual. They're still ninety minutes out from Destiny, and shit, he really hopes he'll find a way to calm down before then. 

“I want you to make me,” Rush had said a few weeks back. He'd had too much to drink. He'd listed into Young's side unstably, mouthed a little at his ear, and then he'd continued, “Want you to _force_ me.” 

Young hadn't really known how to react at the time – their history of violence and distrust stretched before his mind's eye threateningly, and he couldn't quite imagine how combining that painful antagonism from the past with their current relationship would ever be a good idea. 

But he couldn't unhear it. 

The next day Rush pretended he'd never asked, but Young could've sworn there was something a little disappointed about the man for several nights after. He'd hoped so, at least. Because he wasn't entirely sure some fucked up part of himself didn't simply _want_ that to be the case. The words had wormed their way into his mind and under his skin, making everything feel itchy with pent up... something. He'd chosen not to investigate it too closely. 

Still, it hadn't left his mind. And as the weeks flew by, Rush's birthday approached, and the two notions had somehow whirled together, become an _idea_. 

“If I ever do something you don't want, you need to tell me,” Young had insisted yesterday. Rush had raised his eyebrow a little mockingly, and Young had frowned. He was serious, here. He couldn't take any chances with this. 

“Believe me, Colonel, if you do something I don't like, I'll let you know.” 

“ _Rush!_ I'm saying we need to have something, a word, anything, to tell each other when to stop.” 

That seemed to finally make Rush catch on, because he'd flushed bright red and his eyes had skittered to the side. “Benzene,” Rush muttered, and Young had refrained from asking where the hell that had come from. 

Benzene. 

Benzene benzene benzene. 

Rush hadn't said it just now. He'd been crying and begging for Young to stop, but he hadn't said their word. 

He'd liked it. He'd liked being tied up and humiliated, forced to come against his will, and Jesus. Young takes in a shaky breath and forces his hands into fists. Rubs them against his thighs. 

The fucked up part isn't that Rush enjoys being restrained like that. Isn't that Rush apparently _wants_ to be forced to do something he doesn't (does) _doesn't_ want to do. 

The fucked up part is that... fuck, Young bites the inside of his cheek to distract himself, but even the stinging pain and the coppery tang of blood in his mouth aren't enough to ignore how hard he is right now. He'd tried to be as gentle about it as possible, honestly. He'd done his best to make it seem real enough, but not to hurt Rush. He'd chosen to use his mouth on Rush and focus on nothing but his pleasure. But it had still been a rape fantasy, and he'd still been a rapist in it. And it had _worked_ for him. Because even now, a full twenty minutes after Rush dozed off in his seat, his cock is throbbing. He's so hard it _aches_. Because of what he just did to Rush. 

And what the fuck does that make him? 

His nails dig into the soft flesh of his palms and he wishes he could feel like he's about to throw up, but he doesn't. All he feels is desperate to jerk off and so goddamn disgusted with himself that he can't. 

They shouldn't have done this – _he_ shouldn't have done this – because this is too much. He doesn't want to know this about himself. He doesn't know how to deal with knowing this about himself. 

He swallows hard and forces his hands to uncurl themselves. Grabs his canteen and gulps down half of the water left in one go. Pretends his hands aren't still trembling. Stuffs everything down. 

This was for Rush, and he should make sure he handles it responsibly. He can't let Rush wake up from what they just did and be like _this_ – he needs to be better than that. He needs to make sure Rush is alright. 

He takes another swallow of the chalky water to rinse out the nauseating taste of his own blood and the remnants of Rush's semen and gets up from behind the ship's controls. He walks up and down the length of the shuttle a few times to calm himself down, and then goes to sit beside Rush. 

The man is still dozing, head drooped forward. Taking small, snoring breaths. Young reaches out to cup his face gently, strokes his thumb through Rush's beard. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, watching Rush's eyelids flutter like butterfly wings. He circles his free hand around Rush's, fingers twining together in a way that's maybe a bit too sweet for how they usually are together. 

Rush opens his eyes, and Young isn't sure what he'd subconsciously been expecting to find there – fear, disgust, betrayal? – but he's almost overcome by the deep flood of relief that flows through him when Rush's gaze is warm and open and... 

“Hey,” Rush answers with a slight smile. He still looks kind of sleepy, which is unusual for him. He generally goes from sleep to waking like the flick of a switch. He looks soft and mellow and a little disheveled, and Young's heart twists in his chest. Because what kind of fucked up person would ever derive pleasure from hurting this man? 

“How are you feeling?” Young asks, hoping his face doesn't betray his inner turmoil. 

The way Rush's smile widens a bit, the way he squeezes Young's fingers between his own, makes the rats gnawing at his stomach lining ease up a little. 

“Fuzzy... But good,” Rush answers slowly. “That was... really good.” 

Young feels his own lips quirk up in answer, because yes, this is why he did it. For Rush. No matter what, he had done this for Rush, not because he wanted it himself. Even if it turned out that he did. Even if it turned out he's a worse man than he ever suspected. 

Something must flicker over his face, then, because Rush's smile falters and his eyes sharpen a bit. “What?” 

Young shakes his head, tries not to avert his gaze. “Nothing.” 

“Colonel,” Rush says, clicking open his seatbelt with his free hand. With a small noise of exertion he levers his leg up over Young's until he's straddling him, one hand behind Young's neck, the other still entwined with Young's. He must feel how hard Young is, in this position. He must. But if he does, he doesn't comment on it. 

“Come here,” he breathes against Young's lips before pulling him in for a kiss. 

Young feels the air stutter in his throat as Rush moves against him, soft and slow and just sweet enough to help him almost forget what he has learned about himself. Young circles his arm around Rush's back, keeps him steady and pulls him closer until the warmth from Rush's chest permeates his own. 

Rush pulls their entangled hands over to Young's crotch, and Young almost moans, because his cock is still pulsing with need. 

“No,” he says, pulling their hands back onto his thigh and leaning in for another kiss. It'll go away on its own. He's not going to give in to it. Not when it's the result of... of what he did just now. He's not that man. He won't be. 

Rush seems to understand it, somehow, because when he breaks their kiss he gives Young a deep look and rubs his thumb over Young's knuckles. 

“I care for you a lot,” he husks, which is as close to 'I love you' as they've ever come, and Young feels his arm tighten around Rush's back. It might also be an apology, he thinks, as Rush leans forward again and kisses him quietly. 

Maybe it doesn't matter what exactly it is. 

Maybe it doesn't matter because Young feels exactly the same way. 

Maybe it doesn't matter because it's what Young needs to hear right now.


	62. "You saved my life."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU is inspired by frosty-nerdbutt's [beautiful art](http://frosty-nerdbutt.tumblr.com/post/130940732848/so-fragged-wip-cause-im-such-a-mess-xd). :)

Some days he isn't even sure why he's here. The raucous waves crash against the shoreline unstoppingly, never satisfied. The wind howls around the little shack he calls a home. Some nights it gets so cold even the third wool blanket doesn't keep his feet warm. 

At times, he thinks a beautiful song lures him to the sea at night. A song that isn't really a song. It's notes, gorgeous, melodious notes strung together in way that doesn't quite add up to actual music, playing over the roiling water in the dark. 

It isn't until a nightmare jolts him awake – the screams of his platoon dying around him fresh in his mind – that he gets out of bed and puts on his boots. The tragic tones of loss and grief coming from the direction of the sea lead his feet forward, outside, until he's perching down on an outcropping of stone. A rock that leans into the ocean, the waves smashing hard against its edges. Clinging foam and salty droplets the only remnants of the once strong currents. 

He hears it again, that haunting sound that makes his eyes water and his fingers itch. It's not quite music, but it's not quite _not_ , and he shields his eyes against the stinging mist of the sea to find where it's coming from. 

“Hello?” he asks, because it's night, and there's no one here, and he's alone. He should be alone.

The song stops.

He almost jumps when someone answers. A man, hair plastered wetly against his skull, naked shoulders arising from the water, appears in front of him. “Hello,” he says, like Young's heart isn't stopping in his chest because there's someone swimming up to his outcropping of rock. Like it's absolutely normal for men to just appear out of the sea. 

Young swallows hard. “Are you real?” 

The man in the sea smiles. It seems wistful. “As real as you, I suppose.” 

“...How?” 

The man simply shakes his head, looks away, and disappears into the water again. Young is left blinking at the swirling waves until he's convinced himself it was all a dream. A hallucination brought on by trauma and lack of sleep. Nothing real. 

Except it happens again the next night. He's on the same ledge of rock, ocean big and loud around him, waves violently crashing into the stone at his feet, when the man appears again. 

“Hey,” he says, and Young is left gawking at him, eyes tracing over the delicate hollow of his throat, the sinewy muscles in his arms. He's naked, it appears, and Young doesn't understand how he isn't freezing to death in the water. His lips aren't blue. His teeth don't even chatter.

“Hi,” he says eventually, because the man is giving him a look like he's either an idiot or incredibly rude. “Who are you?”

The man's eyes track over his face for a second. There's something fascinated in their dark depths. “You can call me Rush,” he says with a soft smile. 

Young feels his own lips quirk up in automatic response. “Young,” he answers. The man can call him Young. Everyone does. Did. “The music, was that you?” 

He can't quite decide what to make of the expression flitting across Rush's face right then, but he feels something quiver in his chest when Rush casts his eyes to the side and nods. 

“It's beautiful.” 

Rush looks back up at him then, a small smile on his face. “So is yours.” Young isn't sure what that means at all, but before he can ask Rush the man has disappeared under the surface of the water again. Young wonders where he went, where he came from. Whether he's even real or just a very odd figment of Young's tortuous imagination. 

The next night Rush doesn't show up, and Young worries. Twice is hardly a pattern, but after yesterday he'd kind of expected to see Rush again. He doesn't come, though, and neither does Young hear his heartbreaking song. He doesn't go to bed until the sun is already rising again, and even then he only sleeps for three nightmare-addled hours. 

The night after that, Young sits on the rocky ledge again, waiting for Rush. He's not sure who Rush is, _what_ Rush is, but he knows he wants to see him again. It's past three AM already – Young is nodding off, chin balanced precariously on his palm – when Rush finally comes. 

“Young,” he says breathlessly. “Help me.” 

Young is awake instantly, the twisted snarls of his dream already forgotten, because even in the limited light of the moon he can tell Rush is hurt. The water around him is darker, nearly black, like it's tinted with blood. 

“Jesus,” he says, reaching down to pull Rush out of the sea. “Are you okay?” 

Rush just moans and clings back. When Young hauls him up his breath stutters in his lungs. Because Rush isn't human. At least not _all_ human. Instead of legs he has a huge tail, fish-like, covered in scales that shimmer in the pale moonlight. Beautiful. His arms cinch around Young's neck tighter, as if he's scared Young will let him drop now that he knows the truth. 

“What happened?” Young asks, unwilling to acknowledge the fact that Rush is goddamn impossible. 

“Shark,” Rush pants through gritted teeth. “Caught me off guard.” 

“Jesus,” Young says again. “I need to get you inside. Can you breathe outside of the water?” 

Rush gives him a look that is half out-of-his-mind with pain and half scolding, like he's just said something insulting. “Yes.” 

Young feels his cheeks flush and refuses to think any of it through any further before hoisting Rush up and carrying him away from the sea. His tail feels cold and slick and kind of scary against his hand. His shoulders... they're also cold, but they're sturdy and fleshy and fucking perfect, as well. 

When they're inside Young deposits him on the couch. It's not like he has a better place to put the man-fish. His mind protests at the thought of placing him in his bed – not because it's something he doesn't want, but because it makes his skin prickle to think that he actually _does_. 

The bite mark is hard to miss in the flickering light of his candles. Half Rush's stomach is chewed open – dozens of teeth marks in a wide diameter spanning from just below his nipple, over his bellybutton, all the way down to where his hip tapers into his tail. Young is pretty sure Rush would be dead right now, food in the stomach of a huge shark, if he'd fought a little less hard or if he'd been a little tastier. The realization makes something unpleasant slither through his belly. “How the hell did this happen?” he asks, wetting an old, clean towel with the distilled alcohol he keeps for the hardest nights. 

Rush shakes his head, mumbles something about simple bad luck before twisting his fingers in Young's hair and moaning loudly when Young dabs the rag against his wounds. 

“You're fine,” Young says gently, not daring to move either his head or his hand. “You'll be fine. I'll stitch you up soon.” 

Rush moans again, but his fingers loosen their grip on his hair. 

“What are you?” Young asks. 

Rush looks up at him, then. Eyes wet and glossy. Face somewhere halfway between scared and defiant. “Merman,” he answers. 

Young feels wobbly, unable to hold Rush's gaze any longer. He nods as his eyes skitter to the side. “Okay,” he answers. “Okay. I'm going to have to sew up that bite.” Rush merely closes his eyes and inclines his head. “Let me know if it hurts too much.” 

Rush keeps quiet for most of it, hands curling into fists but never scratching at Young's skin. When Young gets to the lower part of the bite, the part that cut into the beginnings of Rush's fish tail, he mutters something. Something low and pained and unhappy that makes Young's heart clench in his chest. 

“You okay?” he murmurs, fingers continuing their work. 

“Fine,” Rush grits out. “Sensitive.” 

Young nods and swallows, refusing to admit that his hands want to wander lower, onto the uninjured parts of Rush's tail, and stitches up the rest of Rush's wound. 

Afterwards, Rush passes out almost immediately. His hands lose their grip and his head lolls backwards, and Young has no choice but to carry him over to his bed. Well, he has a choice, of course, but putting Rush back in the ocean seems rather heartless right now. Besides, he has no idea whether or not the (mer)man will drown if he's lowered into the water while in this state of unconsciousness. 

At least that's what he tells himself as he lets Rush sleep in his bed while he cleans the blood and the alcohol off his couch before dragging one of the blankets over for himself. 

The next morning he wakes up to an unmistakable sound. It's Rush, those hypnotic notes and that tantalizing melody buzzing through his veins again. But it doesn't sound mournful, this time. It sounds... it sounds hopeful. Happy, even. It stops as soon as he sits upright and looks over at Rush. 

“Hey,” he says quietly. 

“Morning,” Rush answers. 

“Don't stop singing on my account,” Young says, with a small smile and a helpless shrug. 

Rush gives him a tiny smile in return. “Okay,” he says, and then the sound is back, melancholy and haunting and so damn beautiful Young can't help but close his eyes and be swept away by it. 

“Young,” Rush says, once he's done with his song. It feels like being pulled back from the ledge of a cliff. “You saved my life.” 

Young hums, taking his time to blink his eyes open and realizing to his own shock that he's sitting on the edge of his bed, Rush's face mere inches away. 

“I have to repay the favor. Save yours in return,” Rush says earnestly. States it like it is a fact. The stitched up bite marks stand out starkly against his pale skin, no longer bleeding and wet and life-threatening. Young feels tempted to run his fingers over them. Rush reaches for his hand, curls his own together with Young's. He's no longer cold as the ocean. “If you kiss me, I can exchange my tail for human legs. I'll be able to protect you better.” 

Young isn't sure whether any of this makes sense, but all he can hear is “Kiss me”, so he does. He kisses Rush, salty and wet and more desperate than he'd like to admit, and the next thing he knows the merman in his bed is transforming into a human right before his eyes – scale-covered tail molding into feet and shins and thighs made of soft, pale skin. 

“Fuck, that feels weird,” Rush says, shiver wracking through his shoulders all the way down to his hips. He's still beautiful, tail or no. 

Young takes a deep breath. “Will you change back if I kiss you again?” he asks. 

Rush huffs out something that almost resembles a laugh. “I won't.” 

So Young leans forward and does.


	63. Colors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hospital AU for no-more-pawn. :)  
> Also, sorry for the similarities to Potboy's amazing fic [Drowning](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4951738?view_full_work=true).

He hates thinking in clichés, but finds it hard to escape. Ever since Gloria... Ever since her death, the world just seems bleaker. Drained of color. Some days it gets so bad it feels as if he's living in grayscale. Not because his eyes can't see color, but because his brain can't interpret it anymore. As if the right processing centers were so intricately linked to Gloria that they've died with her, gone dark with the gaping hole her loss has left in him. 

“Doctor Rush?” Nurse Johansen says. A muted sense of embarrassment crawls over his skin, and he's glad she can't hear his internal descent into melodramatic melancholy. “I have a patient for you in exam room 4.” 

Rush nods and takes the chart from her. 

“Mr. Young,” he says, stepping into the examination room without looking up from the chart. Military, Air Force Colonel, 44 years old. Admitted two days ago. Cracked ribs, lacerated spleen and liver, several deep sprains. Recent bouts of dizziness. The man probably doesn't feel his best. 

Rush looks up and feels his breath catch in his throat. The man, _Everett Young_ , is... Every bruise on his skin stands out in technicolor brightness. The sunlight streaming in through the window colors his eyes a deep, murky olive green that makes it hard to look away. Even the pattern on his hospital gown stands out, thin blue and red lines burning starkly against his retinas. The man is _in color_. 

Young gives him a look that is half inquisitive and half skeptical, and Rush realizes he is staring. “Doctor Rush,” he introduces himself, clearing his throat and holding out his hand to the man leaning heavily on the exam table. 

“Everett Young.” 

Rush glances back down at the chart, refuses to give in to the urge to stare some more, and definitely refuses to contemplate why the first time he's seen true colors in over a year they all belong to this man. There's nothing special about him. No reason Rush should feel his heart thud harder in his chest. 

“Car accident?” he asks, because the chart doesn't specify where Young got his injuries. 

Young shrugs a little and winces slightly. “I guess you could say that.” Rush feels an impatient sort of annoyance prickle over him and gives Young a prompting look. “Military operation. Classified.” 

“I don't need to know the details of the operation, I need to know the details of your injuries.” 

Young sighs and looks away. “Car crash seems close enough.” 

Rush drags his hand through his hair and puts the chart down on the desk. “So why are you here?” 

“Because my first officer pretty much demanded that I tell someone I've been having headaches and dizzy spells.” 

Rush steps closer. An irrational part of him fears Young will lose all his color if he gets too near, but as he examines him - latex-covered fingers tracing over bruises and cuts with experienced precision - the colors only seem to grow more vibrant. “I think you might have a minor skull fracture,” he says eventually. “I want a CT scan so we can see if there's any brain trauma.” 

“Oh,” Young says. He doesn't sound overly worried, which... is kind of worrisome in itself, Rush thinks. Most people take the news of having broken their _skull_ with a bit more consternation. 

“Mr. Young,” he says, not entirely sure he should be asking this. “How is your mental health?” 

Young's eyes flash, rage bright at the forefront, and Rush almost takes a step back. But there's something off about Young's face. He looks... It's almost impossible to tell, but underneath the harsh anger Rush thinks he looks scared. “I'm _fine_ ,” he bites out, expression closing off and head tilting to the side, away from Rush and his professional concern. 

Rush nods and takes his leave. 

Later that evening he visits Young at his bedside with the results of the scan. While it isn't usual for him to do bedside visits, the rest of his day has been gray and sepia again, to the point where seeing Young was all he could think about anymore. 

“Mr. Young,” he says, relieved to find that the colors are still there – warmer and a little less garish in the room's yellow-tinted lamplight than they were in the afternoon sun. Still beautiful. He kind of wants to trace his finger over the purple-red bruise blooming on Young's cheek. He shakes his head, loosening the stray thought, and sits down next to Young's bed. “I've got your results. You have a small skull fracture, but no serious brain trauma. Your headaches and vertigo should clear up soon on their own, but we can give you something for the pain, if you'd like.” 

Young looks at him. There is something stubborn and pained about his expression. “No meds,” he says. 

“Okay,” Rush nods. He sits there feeling torn. If he leaves now, he'll probably never see Young again. And it's not as if the man makes the most sparkling conversation, but everything feels _alive_ again when Rush looks at him. It's something he hadn't even been aware he truly missed before today. 

“Doctor,” Young says. Rush wonders if he was staring again, but Young just casts his gaze down, tugs a little on the heart monitor on his index finger. “Why did you ask? About my mental health.”

Rush leans forward in his chair, puts his elbows on his knees. “Well, you're military. Covert missions, apparently. I imagine that might take its toll,” he says. “And you did not seem very alarmed by the news of your skull fracture, which is a reasonably unusual response, in my experience.” 

Young nods. “Okay.” 

“Why?” Rush asks. 

Young looks up at him, then, a wan smile on his face. “Even if I did think there was something wrong, and even if I did want to talk about that if it _were_ , everything I say here goes straight to my superiors. I would be taken off-duty. It could ruin my career, and at this point that's all...” he trails off, gaze skittering away, before taking a deep breath and lowering his voice even further. “That's all I have anymore.” 

Rush frowns. Why did he divulge this much if he knows it might cost him his job? Young looks lost, head bent forward and shoulders hunched, and Rush wants to help him more than anything. He wonders whether Young suffers from PTSD, whether he's depressed. Whether he himself is really equipped to deal with whatever is wrong with Young, when he has been living in a world of gray since his wife died. 

“Forget I said anything,” Young says, shaking his head slowly, and Rush makes his decision.

He casts a glance over his shoulder to make sure no one is about to step into the room and quickly darts his hand out to place it on top of Young's, where he's still fiddling with the heart monitor. “I'm not a psychologist, but if you want to talk... just _talk_ , we can do that.” 

Young seems shocked, gaze flicking between Rush's eyes and where Rush is touching his hands. “You'd have to report everything I tell you.” 

Rush shakes his head. “Like I said, I'm not a psychologist. And we don't have to talk here, in the hospital.” 

Young gives him a look that seems almost angry. “Jesus, do I come across that unstable? That you pity me enough you feel the need to counsel me in your free time?” 

Rush retracts his hand and huffs out a breath. “No,” he says earnestly. He doesn't elaborate, and Young doesn't ask him to. Before he leaves Young's room, Rush gives him his phone number. 

A week later, Young finally calls. 

Apparently just hearing Young's voice makes the colors return, as well.


	64. "Stop it!"

“Colonel,” Rush says, and his voice is low and breathy and _intimate_ , and for a second Young doesn't know how to react. 

“What is it, Rush?” he finally asks, but by then Rush is already close, too close, and God, his gaze feels like it's burning a hole into him. 

“I want...” Rush murmurs, and then his eyes flick down to Young's mouth, and everything in Young's head kind of screeches to a halt, because this is not okay. This is not something they _do_. 

They stand there, in stilted indecision, for what could be a second or an hour, because his sense of time is completely screwed to hell, and then Rush launches himself at him. Their mouths clash together painfully, Rush's teeth cutting hard into Young's lip, and _NO!_

He grabs Rush's shoulders and shoves him back roughly. “Rush!” he says, and Jesus, he sounds scandalized. “What the fuck is going on with you?!” 

Rush shakes his head and tries to move forward again, and Young tightens the grip on his shoulders. He tastes blood. His lip feels like it's swelling up. 

“Fuck, Colonel, I have to—” Rush pants out, and then he's pulling back, out of his grasp, turning away. Young sees him press a hand against his crotch, and dear God, what the hell is going on? 

“Rush, you sh—” he starts to say, but then Rush whirls around and comes at him again; fast and precise, grabbing his face in both hands and kissing him, wet and hot, and Christ, he hasn't been kissed in so long that even this feels good. Even with his bruised lip and the taste of copper in his mouth. But then Rush walks him back until he's pushed up against the wall and plasters his entire body against him; one long, tense, hard stripe of heat against his chest, his thighs, his hips, and oh fuck, he feels himself stir, and he _can't do this_. 

“No!” He harshly pushes Rush back again and feels a faint stab of worry when Rush stumbles, almost falls backwards, with a moan and a dazed look on his face. Then Rush comes forward again, and Jesus, either he is compromised or he's drugged or he's incredibly bad at taking a hint. But this time he doesn't reach for Young's face. Instead he unexpectedly shoves a hand between Young's legs, and for a second it paralyzes him, that firm touch. He hears himself gasp when Rush squeezes him just hard enough to be exquisitely frightening. It's instinct more than anything else to grab Rush's wrists and slam him back against the wall, hands pinned next to his head.

“Stop it!” he growls, and fuck, their faces are really close together. Rush gives him a look that is fear and lust and wide-eyed shock, and then he screws his face up and cries out as his back arches and his hips jerk. 

Oh God, did he just...

With a stunned uncertainty Young lets go of Rush's wrists and steps back. The palms of his hands feel like they're burning. Rush slides down the wall like a rag doll, and Jesus, yes, there's a damp spot on the front of his jeans. 

Fuck, this is not normal. He needs to call TJ. 

When he grabs for his radio, though, he feels Rush yank on his pant leg. He doesn't say anything, but his eyes meet Young's for a second - desperate and embarrassed and still a bit hazy - before skittering to the side. It causes Young to pause, to realize how he'd feel in this situation, and it makes him take pity on Rush. 

He's never been more grateful for his pokerface than he is right now, as he rummages through his wardrobe for his spare pair of uniform pants. With an inward grimace he wets the small towel he uses for shaving, and then hands both the clothes and the towel to Rush. 

“Get cleaned up,” is all he says before turning away from Rush and studiously staring at a report on his desk. Everything is quiet for a few long moments, but then Rush takes a deep breath and Young can hear him unbuckling his belt. He's not thinking about this, he's reading a report on... he checks the paper. On the hydroponics lab. Right. Important stuff. 

But even if he isn't looking, he can still picture exactly what's happening. The soft scrape of towel over skin is hard to ignore, and God, did Rush really just come in his pants from nothing but being held against the wall? That's... That is... It's actually kind of... Young calls himself to order; he isn't going to do this. He isn't going to think about the sound Rush made when he—

No, he is focusing on what the hell is wrong with Rush. What made him act this way. Because it sure as fuck isn't like Rush goes around kissing him and grabbing his dick on a normal day. 

And shit, maybe the whole thing hadn't left him as cold as he would've preferred, but it's not as if there's a lot of opportunity for sex on this ship – not for him, anyway – and he's not made of stone, alright?

He pokes his tongue experimentally at his swollen lip, rubs slickly against the tender skin until he finds the cut. His mouth tastes faintly of blood, but he imagines there's something else there, too. Something _Rush_ , and Christ, he really has to get a grip. Because Rush is under the influence of something and he is on the floor somewhere behind him, taking off his come-stained pants, and none of this is even remotely appropriate. 

It seems like an eternity before he hears Rush do up the zipper on Young's BDU pants. Before Rush is finally decent again. He turns around, glad Rush avoids his gaze in favor of buckling his belt and tying his shoelaces, and lets his eyes roam over the man's form. 

“You feeling okay?” he asks finally, not sure how Rush is going to react. 

Rush is quiet for a long while as he haphazardly bundles his sullied clothes together between his hands. “...Better,” he admits, eventually. 

“You're going to have to go see TJ,” Young says. That is non-negotiable. 

Rush finally looks at him then; a frown that is half entreaty and half resigned irritation. Young's imagination overlays the expression with the image of Rush's face, eyes squeezed shut and mouth torn open as orgasm took him, and he has to avert his gaze. 

He wants to ask, more than anything, what the fuck just happened. Instead he squares his shoulders and inclines his head at Rush to lead the way. 

Rush goes from outraged to long-suffering in seconds, as if he can't honestly be surprised Young doesn't trust him to make it to TJ on his own, and palms open the door. 

It isn't until they're in the infirmary that Young realizes Rush isn't wearing any underwear.


	65. "I want you to be happy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is basically just because I wanted an AU where Young and Rush live in a cabin with a dog named Hank. (I honestly couldn't even tell you whether Rush or Young named him.)

“Hey.” Young steps into the cabin, cheeks and nose red with the cold. A slurry of leaves gets swept inside by a gust of icy wind, and Rush mutters at him to shut the damn door already before going back to his work. He's on a deadline, here. 

“I'm shipping out again,” Young says quietly, and Rush looks up from his laptop. Young looks like he always does – a little sad, a little guilty, and a lot like the only person Rush can ever see himself with anymore. 

“When?” he asks. Hank quirks his head up from where he's been lazing in his basket and whines, as if he can understand the words. As if he understands that Young is leaving again. 

“Tomorrow,” Young answers, stepping closer to him and scratching his fingers through Rush's hair, like _he's_ the dog. “It's just for two months.” 

Rush nods. That's good. Two months is not too bad. He lets his eyes track over one of the logs of the cabin wall and wonders if he should say something. 

He already knows he can't ask Young to stay. 

He already knows it won't be forever. 

He already misses Young. 

No words. They don't do well with words anyway. He gets up from his desk chair – deadline forgotten – and decides to make the most of what little time they have left. 

Young is warm against him. He always is. He's warm and soft and solid, and when Rush pushes in for a kiss he complies without resistance. 

This, they can do. Touch and breath and physical connection so much easier than finding the right things to say. The right words in the right order to convey the right meaning. They've always been better at communicating with each other through their bodies, hands curled into fists or sliding across vulnerable skin to probe for entrance. 

Young moans against him. The sound sets something aching in Rush's chest. They should probably take this to the other room, to the _bed_. Because they're not teenagers anymore, and the idea of Hank watching them makes Rush distinctly uncomfortable. As if Young can hear his thoughts, he pulls back and smiles at Rush. He darts in for a quick peck on the corner of Rush's mouth and steps away to shoo Hank out of the room. The dog goes, giving them a look that is too easy to interpret as reprimanding, and Young turns around again. The fire in the hearth crackles gently, casting him in a warm, flickering light that makes him seem almost otherworldly. 

“Come here,” he says with a slight smile, reaching out his hand, and Rush goes. 

It will always be like this, he knows. Young will leave and Young will come back, and Rush will accept it and wait for him. Perhaps it's not perfect, perhaps he spends too many nights cold and alone while Young risks life and limb for a cause Rush doesn't think is worth it, but it's better than not having this at all. 

Young lies him down, strips him naked and warms him up, and when he slides inside, slowly, gently, Rush breathes out, “I'll miss you.” He hadn't intended to say it – they don't do soppy declarations of affection. All of this, all of the softness, tenderness between them, it goes unspoken. 

Young's breath hitches, and his hips still. “Ask me,” he whispers, words pressed against the skin of Rush's throat, feeling as permanent as a tattoo. 

He can't. He can't ask Young. He can't make him choose, because he doesn't know with any kind of certainty that Young will choose _him_. And even if he did, he can't be responsible for taking away Young's life, Young's dream, Young's purpose. 

He can't do any of those things, but when Young moves inside him, deep and slow and so fucking hot, he can't _not_. 

“Stay,” he says, wrapping his legs around Young's hips to get him in even closer. “Please don't go.” 

“Rush,” Young groans, clearly asserting some effort to keep his thrusts sinuous and smooth. “Fuck, I love you.” 

It pierces his heart. He'd never expected to hear those words. Not from Young. Not directed at him. He moans deeply. 

“I love you, too.” 

“I'll quit, if you want me to,” Young says, biting softly at Rush's neck. 

Rush squeezes his eyes shut. He wants to say yes. He wants to be selfish and make Young feel so guilty that he'll never leave again, but he can't. He can't force this decision for him. He's afraid Young won't be happy, won't be satisfied with just this. Just _him_. Young will start to resent him and they will fall apart, and he can't stand that thought. He'd rather have this, with all the fear and the loneliness included, than not have it at all. He shakes his head. “I want you to be happy.” He wonders if Young could ever truly be happy without the army. Without his missions and his gunfire and his death. 

“I'm happy when I'm with you,” Young gasps, hips bucking forward in a way that leaves both of them breathless, and Rush can't let himself believe that. He can't let himself believe they could have this, just _this_ , without Young leaving and putting his life on the line and he himself staying behind quietly in this cabin with Hank and nothing but Young's ghost to make everything feel alive. 

He shakes his head again, throwing it back when Young hits his prostate. “I love you,” he whispers, circling his arms tighter around Young's neck. Young groans and reaches down to stroke him off, to make him come before he does himself. 

“Fuck, Rush,” he says when Rush topples over the edge and coats their stomachs in his seed. A few stuttered thrusts later he tenses and empties himself into Rush as well. 

Rush strokes Young's hair gently as he comes down from his orgasm. Refuses to admit that the warm slick of semen inside him feels better than it probably should. 

“I won't go,” Young says against the shell of his ear. “I'll call them and say I'm done.” 

Rush lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He might have been holding it for _years_. “I want you to be happy,” he says again. His eyes burn dangerously. Young's hair is thick and clammy with sweat between his fingers. 

“You make me happy,” Young repeats, and both of them look up when Hank scratches at the wooden door and whines to be let in. It breaks the tension and the mood, and Rush feels his lips quirk up in amusement. 

“Best not leave him waiting,” Rush says, pushing at Young's shoulders to roll him away until his cock slips out of him. Young heaves out a tired chuckle and grabs his discarded t-shirt to wipe off the worst of their mess. 

“I really do love you, you know,” he murmurs quietly, pulling Rush in for a slow kiss. The fire crackles happily next to them, and Rush lets out a contented sigh. Young's mouth is soft and warm and _home_. 

And perhaps he really doesn't have to make it through the cold nights all on his own anymore.


	66. “What can I get you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coffee Shop AU! Because all the cool fandoms have them, apparently.

The first time the man comes in, the shop is almost empty. Two teenagers are drinking pumpkin spice macchiatos and making high pitched, tittering noises of laughter as they stare down at a phone screen. An older lady is seated a few tables over, flicking her fingers over her iPad as she absentmindedly sips at her mint tea. The twenty-something guy with the thick-rimmed glasses and the scarf so thin it can't possibly be anything but a fashion statement types away on his laptop, pausing every thirty seconds to glance up. To see if anyone is looking. 

“We're going to take our break now, is that okay?” Tamara says, drying her hands on a green dishtowel and stepping out from behind the counter. Vanessa steps up next to her, redoing her bun, and gives him an easy smile. Everett nods at them and watches them step out of the coffee shop, Vanessa's hand curling into TJ's the way it always does. Like it belongs there. They usually go to Gino's on Tuesdays, eating there together. Luckily they're considerate enough to take their breaks during lulls in the shop. And to always bring some lunch for him when they get back. He thinks it's nice that they've managed to stay in love despite spending pretty much every hour of every day together – working at his shop and sharing a cozy one-bedroom apartment and studying at the same university. It's not something he'd choose for himself – he gets crabby when he's around people for too long at a time. He needs his own space. But it would be nice to have someone to come home to after a long day of work. To have someone to cook for on the weekends. To have someone to sleep with. God, it's been a long time since he had sex. 

Everett sighs, cleans the counter, and considers that it really might be time to start looking for a relationship again. It's been over a year since the divorce. 

The door opens and Everett looks up to see a man. Slight. Suede jacket and well-worn jeans. Hair a little on the long side to be practical, but not seemingly coiffed that way out of vanity. The man radiates discontentment, eyes narrowing disapprovingly at the menu board above Everett's head. 

“Hello,” Everett says, wiping his hands and getting ready to take the man's order. “What can I get you?” 

The man ignores his greeting, makes an annoyed clicking sound in the back of his throat, and turns to him. “What the hell is a 'Chaikovsky' supposed to be?” 

Everett raises his brow. The description of the drinks is written underneath them, hard to miss. “A chai latte with hazelnut and walnut syrup.”

The man scoffs. Clearly not finding the whole Nutcracker thing very clever. Everett isn't sure whether he finds the man more amusing or annoying. But he's good at waiting people out, so he exercises his patience and gazes at the man until he decides what he wants. 

After nearly twenty seconds the man gives him an irritated little hand wave. “Well, go on, then.” 

Everett blinks. “You want the Chaikovsky?” 

The man rolls his eyes and makes that same hand gesture, like Everett is the one acting like he's never been in a social interaction in his life. God, some people are so much work. 

“Alright,” he says, keeping his face pleasant and calm as he starts preparing the sugary drink. The door to the shop opens and three chattering women step inside. “Name?” 

The man looks a little taken aback by that. “Why?” he asks. Everett contemplates asking him if he's never ordered coffee before, but instead just sends him a small smile and writes “Why” on the cup before filling it with chai. 

After money and tea have been exchanged, the man looks down at the cup and gives him an annoyed little glare. It gives Everett an odd feeling of accomplishment. He smiles. 

The next day, the man is back. And the day after that, as well. Everett has no idea why he keeps coming back, but every day he makes derisive noises at whatever the daily special is and then expects Everett to make it for him. 

It isn't until a week later that Everett actually learns his name. He amuses himself more than is appropriate by thinking up inventive ways to misspell it. He enjoys the irritated scowls Rush sends him even more. 

It isn't until the month after that that he finally writes Rush's name on the cup correctly and adds his own phone number underneath it. Rush gives him an exasperated little eye roll and walks out without saying anything. 

Everett isn't even surprised to find out Rush is just as much of a jerk on the phone. Or that he's just as easy to annoy over dinner.


	67. "Good morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Some dubcon in the form of sleep-sex in this one.

Young wakes up. Next to him, Rush has retreated to the other side of the bed, coverlet kicked down to his knees. It's been warm on Destiny lately, and Young decides he should ask Brody and Volker to take a look at that. He sits up on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake Rush, and checks his watch for the time. 05:00. He can sleep some more. First he needs to take a leak, though. 

He ambles over to the bathroom, naked, scrubbing a hand over his eyes and then through his hair as a deep yawn rises from his chest. When he's done he catches his reflection in the mirror. It's odd, really, how much better he looks. How much more rested he feels. How finally finding a way to channel all the electric heat and sizzling frustration between him and Rush into something warmer, more constructive, more _intimate_ has made him realize they should have done this a long time ago. 

He pads back into the bedroom, steps quiet as he lets his eyes roam over Rush's form in the bed. He's still sleeping, on his back, little half-snored breaths somehow almost as endearing as the fact that he's apparently decided to put on Young's boxers halfway through the night. They're a bit big on him, but his morning erection makes good use of the extra space. 

Young feels a prickle of lust settle in his belly. He wants. He wants Rush, to suck him in and watch him come, start the morning with a bang, so to speak. It's one of those things that's always turned him on – the idea of being woken up by a blowjob – and now that the thought has niggled its way into his brain, being on the other side of that seems equally hot. 

Should he? 

Would it be too soon? They haven't been together all that long yet, although it feels as if they'd been working up to it for a long time before they finally buckled under the weight of all the attraction and lust between them three weeks ago. 

Would Rush's first thought be Young's name? Or would he wake up disoriented and dazed, hazy with pleasure, and think of his late wife? Or maybe even Doctor Perry? The thought lodges itself into his heart like a thumbtack, sharp and painful, and he's not even sure whether it's more jealousy of the ghosts of Rush's past, or sorrow for how much loss Rush has had to suffer throughout his life. And wow, how did he get from thinking about sucking Rush off in his sleep to contemplating _this_?

Rush makes a muffled little sound in his sleep, his hand stealing down to his crotch and rubbing halfheartedly against his erection with his palm as if to redirect Young's attention to the matter at hand. Young looks at him, contemplates his options.

So far Rush has been more than enthusiastic about everything Young has wanted to do. He's let Young explore every part of his body, and has returned the sentiment with vigor. He's masturbated for Young to watch when Young asked him to, a knowing little smirk curling his lips the whole time, his eyes trained on Young. He's asked Young to hold him down, grip tight on his wrists as he fucked Rush harder, hard enough to wonder if it hurt, until Rush screamed and toppled over the edge, cock untouched. He's asked to tie Young's hands to the bed, control him completely as his tongue licked, probed, prepared him for a bigger breach. Everything they've done has been good, so good. 

Young's dick is definitely getting interested, plump against his thigh, pulse thick in his balls. Rush's cock is flat against his belly now, his underwear has slid down a little, and the tip is peeking out from under the dark fabric in a way that makes Young's mouth go dry with anticipation. More and more, he thinks this _is_ a good idea. Rush loves blowjobs. Rush loves morning sex. What could be better than combining the two and letting Rush wake up with his dick down Young's throat? God, he wants to do it.

Decision made, he climbs onto the bed carefully, settles next to Rush. He lets a finger trail over Rush's cheek. Not to wake him, but to get him used to touch, to outside stimulus. To let his body incorporate this into Rush's dream – because the fluttering underneath his eyelids suggests he's going through REM right now. Rush doesn't move, doesn't react to the soft brush over his cheek, and Young lets his fingers glide downwards. Over his throat. Down his chest, skimming lightly over one nipple. Pointedly ignoring the scar in the middle of Rush's chest – he doesn't like thinking about everything it represents, even though it seems to bother him more than it does Rush. 

All four of his fingers move down Rush's stomach, stopping for a moment at his bellybutton, and then reaching the tip of his erection as it pokes out from under the waistband of Young's boxers. Gently, ever so careful not to wake Rush up, Young moves the elastic away from Rush's abdomen, down, down, until he can settle it deliberately below Rush's balls. God but the man has a nice cock. 

He glances over at Rush's face as he places a finger at the base of his erection, pressure feather light, to see if he's about to wake up. Rush isn't. He turns his head a fraction of an inch and twitches his shoulder a little, but he stays asleep. Young smiles and bends forward. 

He starts with soft laps, short, gentle strokes of his tongue from side to side, starting at the bottom of Rush's dick and slowly working his way to the top, to Rush's cockhead. He lingers around the edge of the glans, uses his lips to tug at the foreskin a little, and then focuses on the slit in the tip, licking over it with little flickering sweeps and relishing the salty taste of precome as it starts to flow. Rush always gets so wet, Young thinks it's remarkable. 

Rush makes a small noise, a hitched breath that is almost a moan, and Young lifts his head up to see if the man's awake yet. Still not, it seems, although his cheeks are flushing and his expression isn't quite the peaceful face of slumber anymore. Eyebrows drawn in a way that makes him look either worried or enraptured, bottom lip glossy like he's sucked it into his mouth. 

Young feels a small smile settle on his lips and moves back, down to Rush's testicles, to lavish them with his tongue just the way he knows Rush likes it. When he sucks one of them into his mouth Rush lets out another thready moan, and Young feels compelled to look up again. Rush seems to be on the edge of waking, eyelids fluttering and breath coming in harsher. Suddenly Young's worries flood his mind again. What if Rush doesn't expect to see _him_ when he looks down? What if this is going to end in pain and disappointment, either for Rush or for him, because he just did this without discussing it beforehand? 

Rush's dick twitches a little, and Rush lets out a soft sound with such desperation behind it that Young sucks him into his mouth before he can drive himself crazy with his doubts. One hand is curled loosely around the base of Rush's cock now, holding rather than stroking, and Young tongues a slow circle around Rush's head before bobbing down, pulling more of his length into his mouth, against the soft flesh of his cheeks and the ribbed hollow of his palate. With his free hand he blindly grasps for Rush's hand, placing it on the top of his head, Rush's fingers in his hair, so he'll be able to feel that this is Young before he even opens his eyes. 

He sets up a rhythm – gentle and slow, but steady. Intended to build the arousal higher, work Rush towards orgasm, even if the tempo is unhurried. Rush moans again now, louder, and suddenly the fingers in Young's hair tighten. 

“Wh... Oh. _Oh_ ,” Rush says, choking a little on the realization of what is happening, and his entire body tenses up. His grip on Young's hair becomes almost painful. “ _Young_.” 

Young hums his agreement and speeds up the pace a bit, sucks a little harder on Rush's cock, delicate and steel-core hard at the same time. 

“Christ, you... Ah,” Rush mumbles, letting his hips snap up a little, jamming his dick into the back of Young's throat in a way that really shouldn't feel as good as it does. Young is the one who moans now, in encouragement, taking away the hand circled around Rush's cock and using it to place Rush's other hand in his hair as well. Then he grabs Rush's hips. Gives him enough leeway to fuck his mouth but not so much that Rush will make him gag too badly. 

“Christ,” Rush says again, and then he's going, pulling Young's face down into his crotch, pumping his hips up into Young's mouth, moaning a litany of fucks and Youngs and yesses. Young feels his own dick throb, a pulsing so deep he thinks he might come from just this, and as Rush's voice around him grows louder, his movements more frantic, Young lets one hand steal down to his own cock and strokes twice, three times before stuttering out his release. His vision grays out for a split second as his mouth falls open in a blissful moan and Rush spears his cock down his throat deeper than he thinks he's ever gone. 

“Oh, _fuck_!” Rush pants, and then he pulls back a little and comes, the tip of his dick on Young's bottom lip as he spurts into his open mouth, coating his tongue and the back of his throat with filth. Young groans with how dirty it is, how fucking erotic it is to feel his lips tingle and his dick twitch its last spasms of orgasm as the cavern of his mouth is drenched with Rush's seed. He looks to the side, up to where Rush is breathing heavily, and catches his eye before he closes his lips around Rush's cockhead and swallows everything down. Another tiny moan escapes Rush's throat, and Young feels himself smile. 

He places a last soft kiss on Rush's cock before moving back, quickly pulling the blanket over the puddle of his cooling come on the mattress, and settles against his side. “Good morning,” he says quietly, loving how rough his voice sounds. 

Rush gives him a sated little smile, and he really is beautiful, Young thinks. “Aye,” he agrees, before dragging Young in for a kiss. 

“You liked that, then?” Young asks after they part, and Rush's snort makes something come undone in his chest. He kisses Rush again, delighting in the idea that he's painting Rush's mouth with the taste of his own come. 

Maybe it was a good idea, after all. 

Maybe he'll have to try it again some time, just to make sure.


	68. “You just couldn't wait to get me out of my pants, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zombie Apocalypse AU! This one's for Max :)

He wakes up biting back a groan. His shoulder is an aching, throbbing mess, but over the past couple of months he's learned to wake up swiftly and quietly. Dust motes drift through the air as he quickly takes stock of his environment. It's a bedroom, seemingly entirely colonized by floral patterns. The waning light of dusk streams in through sheer curtains – no bars in front of the windows, so he must be at least on the second or third floor. He's never been here before, and he has no idea how he got here. 

A quiet clank downstairs makes him jerk upright. His shoulder protests angrily, but he ignores it. If it's just a single one of them, he needs to be ready to fight. If it's more than one he needs to be ready to escape. To his chagrin, he isn't wearing any pants. Aside from the thick bandage on his shoulder and his flimsy boxers he's naked. Defenseless. He glances around the room quickly – if at all possible, he'd prefer not to flee to a safer place in nothing but his underwear – and heaves a small sigh of relief when he finds his pants and shirt hung over the back of a chair. He works into them as quickly as he can, not paying attention to the way his shoulder twinges harshly.

Another noise makes him whip his head around. A ceramic clunk, like a mug being jostled over a kitchen counter, and fuck, the small flicker of hope that he'd been imagining all of it sizzles out. His ears prick up as he tries to suss out whether there is just one of them downstairs. 

It isn't until he hears the footsteps on the stairs – measured, even, nothing like _their_ shambling tread – that he realizes something his sluggish mind has completely skipped over. He woke up in a bed. In a room that he'd never been in. He'd been put there, someone had taken off his clothes and let him sleep, and Jesus, everything floods back. The attack. His fall. _Rush_. 

“You're up,” Rush says, when he's made his way up the stairs. He's holding a mug of something. Instant coffee, by the smell of it, and Young can't help the grateful smile that wants to worm its way onto his face. It's relief. It's relief that they made it, and it's gratitude that Rush... Rush saved him. And then he took care of him, put him in a bed, bandaged his wound. And now he's bringing him coffee? It's a far cry from the callous man he knew before all of this started. 

“Yeah,” he answers quietly, when Rush hands him the mug. The silence that descends between them is loaded with tension. 

“I found a bottle of ibuprofen. Do you want some?” Rush asks, and once again Young is struck by how strange it is to see Rush like this. Like he actually cares about Young. 

“Yeah,” he says again. Then, when Rush turns away to get him his pills, he feels like he should say something more. “Thank you.” 

Rush glances over his shoulder and shrugs. “There's more than enough.” 

“You know that's not what I meant,” Young answers. 

Rush rolls his eyes and steps into what Young assumes is a bathroom. The quiet rattle of a few bottles tells him he's probably rummaging around in a medicine cabinet. When Rush comes back out, he's shaking two bright pink tablets into his palm. 

“This place safe?” Young asks, knowing it's a question without answer. 

“Safe enough,” Rush says. “For now, anyway. You need to rest.” 

Young shakes his head. “No.” 

They need to get to the rendezvous point. They need to find out if the others are still alive. They need to get Rush to Atlanta. 

Rush gives him a pointed look when Young tries to accept the pain pills with his free hand and winces as his shoulder screams agony at him. “You need to rest.” 

And fine. It's getting dark anyway, and he really prefers not traveling at night. “Tomorrow, then.” 

Rush frowns. “The day after.” When Young opens his mouth to protest – they really don't have time to waste here – Rush continues. “You're no good to me like this. You can barely stand up straight, let alone shoot a gun.” 

Young thinks it's Rush-speak for 'I'm worried about you,' and decides to let the argument go. Rush is right, anyway. He's no good to anyone like this. 

“We have any food here?” Young asks, after washing away the ibuprofen with a gulp of slightly disgusting coffee. He'd never thought he'd miss having a Starbucks on every street corner, but so far good coffee has been surprisingly hard to come by in the zombie apocalypse. 

“Soup, mac and cheese, and beans,” Rush offers with a shrug. 

“What kind of soup?” 

“Tomato and chicken. Found some crackers, too.” 

“Tomato,” Young answers. He's quite hungry, actually. He might ask Rush to make him some mac and cheese, too. Rush gives him a long-suffering sigh, like Young just asked him to chop off his right hand. Then he turns away, to the stairs. He doesn't look back at Young, but it's clear he expects him to follow Rush, and Young hides his smile by taking another sip of coffee before making his way downstairs as well. 

Rush heats up the can of soup over their gas burner and pours them each a large bowl. It seems the floral print managed to invade even the kitchen, and Young wonders who lived here as he studies the... carnation? The carnation print on his bowl. Rush hands him a spoon and a packet of crackers, and they sit at the kitchen table as the sun slowly sets around them. 

It's almost domestic. It's almost as if the world hasn't ended and they haven't lost pretty much everyone they care about. Young eats his soup and crackers as the painkillers start doing their job. And yeah, he decides. It's almost nice. 

“So,” he says, when it becomes clear Rush is just going to stay silent for the rest of the evening if Young doesn't initiate conversation. “You just couldn't wait to get me out of my pants, huh?” 

Rush looks up at him, spoon halfway to his mouth, gaping. Young feels a laugh bubble up in his throat and takes another bite of soup to stifle it. 

“Your clothes were soaked from that river,” Rush protests. “You're entirely useless as is, I doubt adding pneumonia to the mix would have helped on that front.” 

This time Young does chuckle. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Rush.” 

Rush lets his spoon clink back into his bowl and glowers at him. “Fine. See if I save your sorry arse the next time you almost get yourself killed.” 

Yeah, it's nice. Because Rush may be a total dick half the time, but Young is starting to figure him out. And Rush can pretend all he likes that he doesn't give a crap about anyone, but Young knows better now. And maybe everything is fucked. Maybe TJ and Eli and Greer are dead. Maybe they'll never make it to Atlanta. Maybe the world has already ended and they're just experiencing its final death rattle before they come to a painful end themselves. 

But sitting here with Rush, slowly becoming friends with the man he'd almost left for dead once, he finds it easier to believe that all those scenarios belong in nothing but his nightmares. 

They're going to find the others. What's left of the world can still be saved. They're going to be okay.


	69. “You're not gonna play?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bowling AU? Is that a thing?

“Happy birthday!” Eli beams at him, and Rush is torn between feeling utterly exasperated and slightly touched, because not only has his team remembered his birthday – not that he places any real value on the forced celebration of arbitrary dates, but it's the thought that counts – they have also given him both the perfect gift and the worst present ever. The perfect one, the two pound bag of Kona beans from the local roastery (his absolute favorite blend, and a rather expensive one, too) sits on his desk, looking ambrosial and mouthwatering. He suspects Park and Brody are responsible for that one. The terrible gift, and this is _definitely_ something Eli came up with, although he doesn't put it past Volker to have manipulated Eli with some covert inspiration, is a gift card entitling him to ten sessions at a bowling alley. A _bowling alley_. In what universe does he seem like the type of person who enjoys bowling?

“What is this?” 

“It's all about expanding your horizons, Rush,” Eli says, sounding like he finds the idea of Rush throwing a bowling ball absolutely hilarious. Rush grunts his thanks at his team, with a pointed nod at the coffee beans, and goes to the break room to get himself a cup of the substandard coffee that is all that is on offer in the lab. 

The Kona beans are long gone by the time he finds himself contemplating what to do with the gift card. He hates waste, and he'd prefer not to just throw the card out. He's already checked to see if the bowling alley offers refunds, but they plainly refused, so there went his first attempt at getting rid of the thing. His second thought was a fleeting one: he could simply gift it to someone else. Perhaps someone who would appreciate it more than he does. But the major caveat, of course, is that he doesn't really have any friends. Aside from Mandy. And giving it to her would be nothing but a cruel reminder that she is chained to her wheelchair. It would have been nice if he could have used the gift card as a sort of incentive at work, a reward for whichever member of his team proved to be the least useless over the course of a week or so. But seeing as they were the one to give the card to him in the first place, the rudeness of that gesture would probably negate any possible upsurges in productivity. Besides, he can't stand the thought of Eli and Volker knowingly smirking at each other when they come to the conclusion that he's too... scared? Boring? Stuck in his rut of a life? Too _something_ to try anything new. 

So that's how he finds himself at the bowling alley on a Sunday morning, completely annoyed before even putting on the disgusting shoes the girl behind the counter insists he wears. Expanding his horizons. Right. 

It's eerily quiet aside from the occasional thump of a ball hitting the hardwood floor, the subsequent roll of it over the smooth surface, and the plunking of pins being bowled over. There are very few people on the lanes, three lone figures with, Rush notices, better shoes than the dingy ones the bowling alley offers. Not professionals probably – and really, is there such a thing as a professional bowler? Because _why_? – but more than mere amateurs from the looks of it. 

Great, now he's going to make a fool of himself in front of people who actually _know how to bowl_. Not that he generally gives a toss what people think of him, but he does generally loathe being bad at things. Even more so when there are people around to witness it. 

The attendant leads him to his lane, next to one of the semi-professional-whatever guys, who gives him a once over and a slight nod before grabbing what Rush suspects is his own personal bowling ball. Rush eyes him as he walks up to the line, arms and legs smoothly moving into position, and rolls the ball with a slight curve that manages to sweep all the pins down with a loud clatter. And alright, looking at it, he can admit there might be something... not beautiful or elegant, but intriguing about it. Angles and friction, that he can work with. Perhaps this isn't as horrific a pastime as he'd imagined. He replays the way the muscles of the man's back bunched and stretched as he threw the ball. 

“You're not gonna play?” the man says, and with a jolt of embarrassment Rush realizes he's been staring. There's something amused about the man's expression, so at least it doesn't seem like Rush has done anything bad enough to warrant a fist to the face, but he should really know better than to gawk at strange men. Even if their hair looks kind of soft and their eyes are sort of pretty. 

“Yes,” he answers stiffly, before grabbing one of the alley balls and making his way over to the line on the hardwood.

The ball is heavy in his hand, and he tries very hard not to imagine how unsanitary those finger holes must be, and his stupid shoes keep wanting to slip-slide over the polished wood. But he can focus on this, on the pins in the distance, on the arc of the ball, the trajectory he aims for. He doesn't quite manage to get the ball where he wants it to go - he can tell before it's even reached the halfway point of the lane - but six pins clatter over, and there's something immensely gratifying about hearing the man next to him say, “Not bad,” even if it would be easy to take affront to the possibility of being patronized. 

“First time?” the man asks, as his ball pops up from the machine. He rolls it and inserts his fingers into it without looking, and Rush feels oddly flustered as he nods. “No offense, but you don't really seem like the bowling type. What made you decide to try?” 

Rush almost snorts. As if he would take offense to the assumption that he doesn't exactly fit in with the type of people who lob heavy objects at inanimate pins while wearing slippery shoes for entertainment. The curve around the man's mouth tells him he knows it, too. “Birthday present,” Rush says. “Ten hours total. Apparently I need to broaden my horizons.” He only barely manages not to make air quotes as he says it.

The man chuckles - he has a nice laugh, Rush thinks - and puts the ball back down in the machine. “Young,” he says, holding out his hand. It takes Rush an embarrassingly long time to realize the man is introducing himself. He feels his cheeks flush when he grasps Young's hand in return. 

“Rush,” he answers. Young's hand is warm in his, grip strong but not too hard. Rush isn't sure, but he thinks they might linger a bit longer than is entirely appropriate. 

“Well, Rush,” Young says, holding his gaze as he grabs his ball from the machine again. “Guess that means I've got some new competition.” He gives Rush one more amused look before turning back to his lane and rolling another strike.

Rush goes back to his lane, and the time goes by much faster than he'd anticipated. By the end of his game he's actually managed a couple of spares and strikes of his own, a feat celebrated with his name flashing garishly on the digital screen above his head, pixelated fireworks in the background making the whole thing even more obnoxious. If it's meant to be some sort of positive reinforcement, it utterly fails. Then again, the small, knowing smiles Young sends him whenever "DR RUSH!!!" appears on the screen make it impossible not to want to do it again, to try even harder. Between surreptitiously glancing at Young when the man isn't looking - the man looks ridiculously competent, only occasionally missing any pins - and trying to refrain from keeping too close track of the scores posted on the brightly colored displays above their lanes, he barely notices when he's going on his last round. 

“So listen,” Young says, close to finishing his own game himself. “If you changed your posture, you'd have more accuracy. Your throws tend to list slightly to the right.” Rush almost squawks when Young steps up closer to him - worried the guy will start pawing at his shoulders or hips without even asking for permission. But Young just stands in front of him, mirrors Rush's stance, and then straightens his back and cants his hips a little to show Rush what he could improve. “Also your arm swings a bit wide, but that's mostly personal taste.”

Rush eyes him warily, but decides it can't hurt to try it Young's way. Young's gaze is heavy on him as he incorporates what Young just showed him, and Rush feels his ears heat up.

“Huh,” he says, when the ninth pin teeters precariously before finding its balance and wobbling back upright. Not a strike, but definitely better than most of his other throws this morning. “That actually worked.”

Young gives him a smile that is half rueful and half suppressed eye roll. “Huh.”

Rush almost startles when the computer screen signals that his game is over. For some reason - despite the disgusting finger holes and the decrepit little shoes and the inanity of bowling itself - he finds that he doesn't really want to leave. He's just contemplating whether to go another game when Young grabs his bag and starts putting away his bowling ball. Rush feels like an idiot for the flush of disappointment that washes through him. 

Young looks up at him when he's done packing up, and Rush could swear there's something uncertain on his face when he asks, “So, will you be coming back? Or was this a once-but-never-again sort of thing?”

Rush smiles, then, because that sounds... That sounds like an invitation. He shrugs, oh so casual. “It wasn't as bad as I'd expected. I suppose I'll use up my gift card, at least.”

Young grins back at him. “Sunday?”

Rush nods. Not like he has much else planned for his weekends. It might actually be nice to have something to fill his Sunday mornings for the next couple of weeks. Having something, some _one_ , to look forward to. Thinking that should probably make him feel more pathetic than it does.

“Cool,” Young says. “I can give you some more pointers, if you want.” His grin turns a little predatory then, and Rush wonders who this man is. This man who seems so laid-back and friendly at first glance, who moves with an ease that neatly covers up something deeper, something _realer_. It's almost as if he knows Young, perhaps recognizes something in him. Or maybe this is simply attraction; he hasn't felt it in so long it might seem more significant than it should be. Either way, he wants to see more of Young.

“Sounds good,” Rush answers, uncertain how to flirt back - because he's pretty sure Young is flirting with him - after years of burying himself in work and settling for the occasional anonymous hook-up. He thinks he could get Young to fuck him right now, if he gave him the right look and meaningfully led them to the washroom. But while the thought sends a thrilled shudder through him, he doesn't want to do that. He doesn't want to turn Young and this... thing, rapport, connection, into just that: one quick encounter that leaves little room for anything else, anything more. And he's not sure how he went from reluctantly setting foot into this bowling alley to contemplating any sort of entanglement with Young that involves more than simple sex, but here he is. He doubts this is what Eli meant when he told him to broaden his horizons, and the thought makes his lips curve upwards. He sticks out his hand, waits for Young to grasp it, and says, “Maybe I can buy you a coffee, after.”

Young cocks his head to the side as if he's surprised by Rush's forwardness, perhaps pleased by it. “Make it lunch and you've got a date.”

Rush squeezes his hand gently before letting go. His palms feel a bit clammy, and he resists the urge to wipe them on his jeans. “Okay,” he says, not entirely happy with how thready his voice sounds. He clears his throat and darts a quick glance at Young's mouth. It's quirked up at the corner, and Rush already knows he'll enjoy mapping out that little curl of lips with his fingers, with his tongue. “Lunch it is.”

It isn't until they're outside, blinking against the bright morning sun and saying goodbye as they make their way to their cars, that Rush realizes he's going to have to _thank_ Eli and Volker now. He groans internally but can't keep the little smile from his face. He's already looking forward to next Sunday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [laurie_ky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/laurie_ky) for helping me sound like a little bit less of an idiot (when it comes to the bowling, at least)! :)


	70. “Dare.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know who did a really adorable [Truth or Dare story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6128152)? [Oriberry](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Oriberry/pseuds/Oriberry)!

Sometimes he made bad decisions. Very bad decisions. Joining the others in the mess for some we-didn't-die-today celebrations had seemed harmless enough. There was food and alcohol and people happy to be alive. Even Rush apparently wasn't above it, although he barely spoke and he didn't drink as much as the others. Of course, Young's first mistake was thinking it was harmless to join in on the fun. To have a few drinks and feel his smiles coming in more easily than usual. Because when Eli and Scott started cajoling him into joining a game of Truth or Dare he'd given in. 

That was his second mistake. 

“Dare,” he'd said, because he didn't really have any other choice, now did he? The way Eli's lips curled up into an evil grin should have been a clear clue that he'd just made his third mistake. People had been coming up with more and more outrageous dares over the past fifteen minutes, and Young had actually been wondering whether to put a stop to it all. So far no one had backed out of any of the dares yet, which meant at best that the first person to do so would be engulfed in loud booing and whiny disappointment, left with an unpleasant sense of cracked pride. Young would rather avoid that, obviously. Shit, he should have left ages ago, before letting himself get roped into this. Because from the looks of it, Eli was convinced this was finally the dare that was going to make him fold.

“I dare you...” Eli said, tapping his chin in mock thoughtfulness before his eyes glittered brightly. “To kiss Doctor Rush.” 

Young felt his stomach drop – he couldn't just... but he couldn't back out, either. Jesus, he shouldn't have drunk this much, because his head was spinning and while there must surely be a way out of this he just really couldn't fathom it right now. Chloe giggled drunkenly at James, who elbowed her gently in the ribs and tried not to smile. Scott's mouth was agape, like he couldn't believe what Eli had just dared Young to do. Greer... Greer looked faintly amused, and Young wasn't entirely sure what to think of that. He couldn't quite make himself look at TJ, and he pointedly didn't look at Rush, who was sitting at their table although he'd refused to join the game. Smart man. 

“Do _not_ ,” Rush said from beside him, voice dangerously low, “kiss me.” 

And rather than make the argument to the others that Rush wasn't a part of this game, that it wouldn't be fair to drag him into this, that he had his own right to choose whether or not to be kissed by _anyone_ , Young found himself turning to the man with a challenge and a dare of his own. “Why not? Worried you'd enjoy it?” 

Rush looked shocked, eyebrows raised high. Young grinned. He knew he was getting too much of a kick out of the sight, but he felt like he barely ever got the drop on Rush like this, and seeing Rush all ruffled and indignant made a simmer of accomplishment swirl through his belly. He wondered what kind of look he could shock onto Rush's face with an actual kiss, and shit, he really shouldn't have had that fifth mug-full of Brody's moonshine. 

“Because I'd make sure _you don't_ ,” Rush answered through gritted teeth. Was that a flush crawling up his cheeks? 

God, Young knew this was a bad idea. 

He cocked his head and leaned forward anyway, slightly surprised that Rush didn't move backwards, stood his ground, even though perhaps he shouldn't have been. Rush raised his chin mulishly, challenging Young back, and time seemed to slow down as he curled his hand into the crook of Rush's neck before fitting their mouths together. Just something short, something dry, to appease Eli and to show that he wasn't scared of Rush. What was the worst the man could do to him? Bite him? He could deal with that – a proud battle wound if nothing else. 

Rush made a choked noise in the back of his throat, and then surprised him further by surging forward, growling a little as his hands shot up to grab the front of Young's uniform and pulled him closer, mouth opening up and licking, sucking, swallowing him whole. It was hot and it was wet and it was _good_ , and Jesus, Young's fingers weakly curled into Rush's shoulders to push him away, but all that really happened was him letting out an embarrassing sound as his hands uselessly slid over Rush's shirt. Fuck, it felt so good to be kissed again. To have someone's body beneath his fingers again. To have Rush right here, not having to wonder what the man was doing (except: _what the fuck was he doing?!_ ). He felt his fingers twitch against the fabric of Rush's shirt and had no choice but to let himself get lost in it all. Rush's hands; Rush's lips; Rush's tongue forcefully ravaging his mouth. His dick filled up so quickly it was dizzying and Rush _still went on_. 

By the time Rush finally pulled back Young was uncomfortably aware of how stiff his cock was, how it pressed against the confines of his pants, and how... shit, how everyone's eyes were on them. Rush gave him a filthy little smirk before letting his hands drop to the edge of the table again. So much for his fantasy of flustering _Rush_ with his kiss. Even the pink in the man's cheeks didn't make him look any less smug. 

“I warned you.” 

Young wasn't sure what to say to that. 'Not enough,' came to mind, but also seemed like the kind of admission he'd really rather keep to himself right now. 

“Er,” Eli said, a blush coloring his cheeks all the way up to the tips of his ears. He let out an awkward laugh. “Okay, I guess I should've seen that coming.” 

Chloe erupted into a fit of giggles again, and this time James just huffed an amused breath and amicably leaned into her shoulder. Greer looked thoughtful, and Scott seemed even more flabbergasted than before, face so red it rivaled Eli's. Young definitely couldn't make himself look at TJ now, but he didn't miss the soft melody of her chuckle underneath Chloe's drunk, tinkling laugh. 

“Well,” Young said, ignoring the way his voice caught on the word. “My turn.”


	71. "Touch me."

Rush is not generally one to listen to his body's needs, Young knows this. Rush easily skips meals, showers, sleep, when the situation calls for it. Or when he thinks the situation calls for it – which in all honesty is not something Young feels comfortable challenging all that often anymore, because when it comes to Destiny Rush always seems to be a couple of steps ahead of everyone. 

So it's not uncommon for Young to judge the amount of trouble they're in by the bags under Rush's eyes, the stringiness of his hair, or even how loudly his stomach growls as he skims over buttons on his console. Most times Rush even accepts the food and drinks Young brings the science team, which always makes Young feel slightly better – a Rush who can't spare the ten seconds it takes him to empty his bowl of protein slop is a Rush who believes they're all about to blow up, and soon. 

It's not always doom and gloom that causes Rush to ignore his physical needs, though. Discovering new technology, or new parts of Destiny, or something interesting in the Ancient database are perfectly valid reasons for Rush to deny his body until he figures out everything his new discovery has to offer him or until his body protests so loudly he's forced to take a nap and wolf down several of his rations in one sitting. Young rolls his eyes a lot when Rush gets like that, but somewhere deep down it makes him feel a little fond. Rush's single-minded stubbornness is both a weakness and a strength, and Young knows that without it they never would have made it this far. There's also a chance they never would have been on Destiny in the first place, but he's decided to let that go. Nothing is to be gained by hanging on to old grudges and distrust, and in the months since coming out of stasis things have been pretty good between the two of them; the hard-won equilibrium between them slowly easing into something smoother, something easier. 

So yes, Rush can get too absorbed to take care of himself when there's something great to discover or when they are in grave danger. 

This moment is an unfortunate combination of the former and the latter. For nearly three full days Rush had been denying most of his bodily needs to explore a newly uncovered area of Destiny, only to be yanked out of his research unceremoniously by a surprise attack by the blue aliens. It had taken six hours and numerous checks and double-checks to not only escape them, but assure Destiny wouldn't be followed again. By the time Rush and Eli are finally sure they're not being tracked by the Nakai, Rush looks like absolute hell. His hair is plastered to his head with grease and sweat, and he can barely keep his eyes open, actually swaying a little bit in place. 

“So you're done?” Young asks Eli, taking a small step closer to Rush's exhausted form. 

“Yeah, not much more we can do right now. We shouldn't drop out of FTL for at least a day, anyway.”

“Okay,” Young says, with a small nod to acknowledge how much he appreciates Eli helping save their asses _again_. Not a day goes by that he doesn't thank the stars they have Eli – the kid is probably responsible for as many saved lives since coming here as Rush. Eli nods back tiredly. He hasn't been taxing himself as much as Rush has, figuring out what all the equipment in the newly discovered lab-like area does, but he has been working side by side with the man for most of it. “Go get some rest, Eli.”

The boy leaves, and for a moment Young wonders how much longer he can keep thinking of Eli as a boy, a kid, because more and more he's growing into his own here. One day soon Young will find he's become a man, and that thought makes him both proud and oddly melancholy. 

“Rush,” he says, taking another step closer to the last man in the control interface room. “Come on, time for bed.”

Rush barely seems to hear him. Young thinks that if Rush is going to fall asleep right where he's standing he could probably reach him in time to keep Rush from braining himself on the edge of his console. He closes the space between them until they're in touching distance just to be on the safe side. 

“Rush,” he says again, not sure how Rush will react if he touches his arm, if he just gently grabs him by the elbow and guides him to his quarters. In his very limited experience with touching Rush, the man does not appreciate it. So instead he prods him with his voice, with his name, until _finally_ Rush's head comes up and he blinks at Young. His eyes are bleary and his expression is... softer, somehow. Not as sharp and hawkish as his usual face. It makes something clench in Young's chest, and he wonders if it's possible that he's actually starting to like Rush. To care for him. To see him as something important not just to the ship and his crew, and not just the way he thinks everyone aboard the ship is important, but important to _him_ , personally. 

“'Sern?” Rush says – or at least that's what it sounds like, and Young feels his mouth curl into a faint smile. 

“Wow, you are dead on your feet, aren't you?” 

Rush makes a small harrumphing sound, but it turns into a yawn halfway through, and Young stifles one of his own as he tries not to feel this weird, protective fondness for a man who would probably kill him if he ever found out. 

“Come on, up you go,” he says, even if technically Rush _is_ up. “Here, let's go.”

Rush sways a little, checks forlornly between his console and Young, and takes an unsteady step toward the door. Young keeps pace with him, determined to let Rush try and get to his quarters on his own power, but when Rush stumbles his instincts kick in and he grabs Rush by the arm. 

“Easy there,” he says gently, happily surprised that Rush is apparently tired enough not to mind this infraction on his physical being. He mutters something inaudible under his breath, and then yawns again, and Young slowly maneuvers him through Destiny's corridors until they reach Rush's quarters. 

The door opens to them easily, and for a minute Young isn't quite sure what to do next. He makes Rush sit down on the bed, and almost immediately Rush tries to topple backwards. “Hold on,” Young says quietly, holding him upright by his shoulders as he strips him out of his vest and his upper shirt. Then he lets Rush sag down on the bed in a guided fall and bends down to take off his shoes. He's pretty sure that when Rush wakes up he is going to be annoyed that Young all but undressed him, but Rush just saved the entire ship and he doesn't deserve to sleep in his boots and vest for it. 

He startles a little when Rush speaks just as he's contemplating whether taking off Rush's belt would be too much of a violation. “Why are you in my room? Are you undressing me?” Rush asks, or Young is pretty sure that's what he asks – the slurring and the mumbling make it pretty hard to follow. 

“Shh, Rush. You need to sleep.” Young is tempted to card his hand through Rush's hair, but he doesn't think Rush will _ever_ be so out of it that he wouldn't get pissed at that. 

“Hum sleep,” Rush says, which Young decides to interpret as one of the easiest agreements he's ever gotten from the man. 

“Listen, do you want me to take off your belt?”

Rush closes his eyes and hums a happy noise. “Take it all off.” Which clearly Young misheard, and even if he didn't, he's not going to strip naked a semi-conscious Rush. 

“Okay, so I'm going to take that as a yes on the belt.” He forces himself to not think of anything but clinical care as he slides the lip of Rush's belt out of the buckle. He's not going to acknowledge how close his fingers are to Rush's dick. This is just as unsexy as cutting off someone's pants after they've broken a leg. 

Rush mumbles something again, and Young is entirely certain he _definitely_ misheard this time, because it sounds way too much like “Touch me.” Young feels his mouth dry up, and then it falls open when the whiny murmur that follows it is an unmistakable “Colonel.”

Young quickly slips the belt out of Rush's jeans, and then drags the covers out from under him until he can tuck him in. Rush makes a few more huffy noises that are somewhere between endearing and hot and just plain wrong, and Young steps back the second he has Rush in bed. 

“Alright, Rush. Go to sleep, I'll leave you be,” he says by way of goodbye. He doesn't expect an answer, Rush should probably be out for the count by now. 

He's almost at the door when Rush's voice comes, muffled from under the comforter. “'Mm. Touch t'morrow.”

It isn't what it sounds like, of course. It doesn't even make sense. 

But Young still feels his heart thrum an excited little beat all the way back to his own quarters.


	72. “Sealed with a kiss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unhappy AU where deal-making demons exist.  
> Warning: This is why I don't do angst. My apologies.

Things like this don't happen in the real world, he thinks to himself. Wishing wells don't work. Fairytale witches don't come to grant you whatever your heart desires most. And demons aren't real. 

Except the woman in front of him seems very real. Her eyes glow an unnatural ruby red, and Rush can smell her – an earthy, waxy scent that he can't quite place. 

“You want to forget?” she asks. He lowers his gaze. It's a betrayal of the worst sort, isn't it? But he can't go on like this. He can't live in their house accompanied by nothing but her ghost. He can't think, he can't do anything anymore, because the black hole she has left in his life sucks everything in like a vortex of agony. 

“Yes,” he says, swallowing his heart. 

“I can make that happen,” she answers, tapping her finger on her chin thoughtfully. “I can make it so you forget. Leave you free to find love again.”

He's not looking for new love. He just wants this one to stop hurting. 

“I must warn you that all magic comes at a price, though,” she continues. Her eyes glitter wickedly, like she just told a joke that he has no way of understanding. “The universe has a way of righting itself, so to speak... And I will want something in return.” 

Honestly, he hardly thinks he has anything worth having at this point, so of course he'll agree to whatever terms she has. “What do you want?”

“Nothing much,” she muses. “Just your heart. When you're done with it.” 

Rush doesn't quite know what to make of it. He barely feels like he has a heart left at all – the broken rubble in his chest can't be worth much, now, can it? He almost tells her he's pretty certain he _is_ , in fact, done with it, but his sense of self-preservation is too strong. “I accept.” 

He's not sure what happens next. “Sealed with a kiss,” the demon says, and the next thing he knows his lips are tingling and he's here, in his house. His home. The one he had shared with Gloria. The one that no longer feels possessed by her ghost. He breathes, relieved that he hasn't forgotten her. Relieved that the clenching anguish of her loss seems to have disappeared. 

“I loved you,” he whispers to her picture on the mantle. Her blue eyes smile serenely back at him. 

For the first time in months, he sleeps through the night. 

In the end, he thinks perhaps he should have offered the demon his heart on that first night. It would have hurt less. Because his heart might have been trampled, it might have been bruised and bloody, but it still had enough life in it to be mended. To be built up, fortified, growing and opening up and letting someone new in. It becomes strong again – merely a little fragile along the fault lines, the scar tissue where Gloria used to be. It flourishes. 

He doesn't expect three little words to break it so thoroughly. 

“I'm Everett Young,” the man says. He has gentle eyes, hazel-brown and a little sad. His hair is slightly curly, adding a touch of softness to his countenance. He seems almost apologetic for being here. 

“Nicholas Rush,” he answers, shaking the man's hand. 

“Sorry, this is kind of awkward, isn't it?” Young says with a slight quirk to his lips. 

It is, Rush agrees. Their mutual friends were not exactly subtle about pushing the two of them together to see if they would 'hit it off'. Like pandas in a zoo. Rush snorts at the thought. He gives Young a nod and a beer, and nudges at him to follow. “Come on, let's take a walk.” 

At least they can get away from the party for a bit, and maybe it will get Camile off his back if she thinks he gave it an honest shot with this guy. 

The thing is, though, that Young is actually not bad company. He doesn't say much, but Rush finds that rather refreshing. And when he does speak, he manages to surprise Rush with his dry wit or his unexpectedly sharp observations on human behavior more often than not.

Something about the man makes it easy to underestimate him, but very hard to forget him. Rush is slightly stunned to find himself asking Camile for Young's contact information the next day. 

They go places – museums and art galleries and once a baseball game – and they bicker about impressionism and Fauvism, rugby versus American football, beer or Scotch. They have fun. Restaurant dates turn into dinners at home, and the first time Young leans in, asks if he can kiss him, Rush's heart thumps hard in his chest as he inches forward to feel Young's lips and tongue against his own. 

He doesn't understand how it can be this easy. Why it feels like he's known Young forever. He didn't think he'd ever have these kinds of feelings again, not after Gloria. He doesn't think he could do it again, could go through losing and mourning and moving on once more. He doesn't kid himself for one second that he would have been able to do it the first time without the help of a demon, and this time around he's only more worn, more damaged, more weighed down by his personal history. But it doesn't seem like Young is planning on going anywhere. Young seems perfectly content kissing him and playing chess with him and making love to him, and Rush can't deny it to himself any longer. He is _happy_.

He wonders about the words the demon said to him. Fears she'll show up any moment to cut his heart out of his chest – because this happiness seems like more than he bargained for. 

She doesn't come for him, though. He never sees her, and slowly but surely he eases into the gentle security that things are good. Better than good. 

A few months later they invite Camile and her wife and David Telford over for Thanksgiving at Rush's house. Young does most of the cooking, and Rush finds himself looking over at him with a slight smile. The man looks at home in his kitchen. In his house. He could see them living here together, perhaps. Camile bumps her elbow against his and salutes him with her glass of wine. “You look good, Nicholas.” 

He takes a sip of his beer to avoid having to answer. 

“So does he,” she continues. “I'm happy you're good for each other.” 

He's saved from saying anything too embarrassing or maudlin by Young calling them to dinner. It's a feast, Young has really outdone himself, and by the time their guests have left and a massive pile of dishes is cluttering the sink, they find themselves sated and drowsy on the couch. Young sprawled half on top of him, fingers lazily tracing over the seams of Rush's dress shirt. 

“This was nice,” he says quietly. Rush hums in reply. 

“I'm thankful, you know,” Young murmurs. “That I, um. Found you.” 

Rush feels his lips curl up at the awkward delivery. Young is not good at sentiment, but all the more endearing for it. “Me too.” 

By the time Christmas rolls around, Rush is quite certain this is love. It's more than fondness, or attraction, or need. It's love, because he can't imagine life without Young anymore. He wants Young to be with him forever, always, and as they enter the new year he begins to consider... It would be stupid, probably. A spectacle, his father would have said. But... the both of them have been married before, and part of Rush wants to have that same thing he had with Gloria – that domesticity, that certainty, that physical proof on their fingers that they belong together. He wants that with Young. 

He buys rings. He keeps them in his bag for _weeks_ , never quite sure it's the right time to ask yet. Spring has sprung by the time he finally gets up the nerve. Young is going to cook for him. He insists on celebrating their anniversary in style, and Rush rolls his eyes and grudgingly goes along with it and secretly thinks it's kind of romantic and sweet. 

Rush straightens his jacket for the fifth time, nervous and full of anticipation, the plain black jewelry box heavy in his pocket, and rings Young's doorbell. 

It isn't until after Young opens the door in his sweatpants, face politely confused, that Rush remembers what the demon told him. His hands tremble when Young opens his mouth and his heart thrums a rapid beat in his throat, as if to get as much work done as possible before it finally collapses in on itself. 

Three words, that's all it takes. 

“Who are you?”


	73. "Action!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actor!AU :D  
> (And yes, like with all my AUs I have no idea what I'm talking about. Just roll with it.)

“Cut!” Emmerson yells, and Rush squeezes his eyes shut tight in frustration as Young rolls off of him. Again. 

It's him, he knows it's him, but for some reason he just can't get into the scene – he's been dreading it for weeks now, the sex scene between his character and Young's, and now that it's finally here it's going even worse than he'd anticipated. 

Young is on the other side of the bed, swallowing down a few gulps of bottled water, and Emmerson crouches down in front of Rush as if he's some scared child actor that needs to be calmed and reassured. Emmerson's a good director, but sometimes Rush really hates being on the receiving end of his soft touch. 

“Look, Nick, you're doing fine.” 

_No I'm not_ , Rush thinks. 

“But I need something more from you. This is the culmination of months of pain and longing; you finally found him, he's finally found you. You've been waiting to be with him forever and now it's here. I need to feel that passion, okay? I need you to give yourself over to that, because right now all I'm getting is that you're holding back.” 

Next to him, Young wisely keeps his eyes away from the conversation. Rush still kind of resents him, though. It's not fair that this is so easy for Young, that he's completely unaffected by this whole thing. That he can just roll on top of Rush like it's nothing and mouth at his neck and simulate a sinuous and excruciatingly hot rhythm with his hips between Rush's thighs without having to worry about getting hard. 

Because Rush does. He worries. A lot. It's not something he's ever had to worry about on set before – sex scenes are pretty much the least arousing setting imaginable, no matter how beautiful his co-stars. But this time he doesn't have a beautiful co-star. Or, at least, he doesn't have a beautiful _female_ co-star, and somehow it's different to be pushed down into the mattress by a heavy, male weight. To have to wrap his arms around broad, muscled shoulders. To have to open his legs to accommodate another man's hips. It's so fucking different that he's shaky with the shock of how much he wants it. How much he wants more.

Christ, he should never have taken the role. Even if the moment he'd had the script in his hands he'd known he wanted to do it, _had_ to do it. He _was_ Tom, in so many ways - and perhaps he'd subconsciously been trying to tell himself something there, because apparently he too is discovering some very dormant homosexual inclinations at a rather late point in his life. Except unlike Tom's, his don't have a chance in hell of getting satisfied. At least not by the person he wants. 

“You can do this, Nick,” Emmerson says, patting his knee in a way that is surely meant to be encouraging. 

“Right,” Rush mumbles with a tight nod. Emmerson gives him a calculating little look and gets up to standing again. 

“Let's try some looser takes. Don't feel too constricted by the script; it's about _what_ we're trying to convey here, not _how_ you do it.” 

Rush nods, but he already knows he won't. The script is the only thing making this even remotely doable – without it he'll be at sea, completely unmoored and much too likely to ruin everything. 

Young hands his plastic bottle to one of the production assistants and turns to him as Emmerson gets back to his seat. 

“Don't overthink it, Rush. It'll be fine.” 

Rush kind of wants to roll his eyes at Young. He kind of wants to ignore him. He kind of wants to kiss him. 

Instead he just mutters another “Right,” and lies back down in the bed. 

Emmerson announces the take information (“Take twelve.”) and calls action and then Young is on top of him again. Kissing his neck, carding his fingers through Rush's hair, positioning himself between Rush's thighs like he belongs there, and it takes everything Rush has not to cling onto him and thrust upwards and whine for more like a cat in heat. 

The sheets are tousled artistically around them. Young's bare backside is in full view of the camera, and Rush knows that if they nail this it will be one of the very few scenes of himself he won't mind rewatching, because Christ, Young's arse is a thing of beauty. 

Young surprises him by dipping his head lower, kissing one of his nipples – that isn't in the script – and swirling slick circles around it with his tongue. A small noise escapes Rush's throat and he instinctively wraps his fingers into the thick whorls of Young's hair. He doesn't even realize he has closed his eyes until Young's socked prick accidentally nudges against his own and they shoot open as a moan falls from his lips. Fuck, that's too close. He's two seconds away from a semi he will not be able to conceal. That jars him, completely yanks him out of the moment, and he already feels the weary sigh piling up in his throat when Emmerson cuts again. 

Instead of disappointed or exasperated, however, Emmerson seems enthusiastic. 

“ _That_! That's what I want to see! That was great, I could feel the desperation and the heat,” Rush feels the tips of his ears go pink. God, is Emmerson just toying with him or does he really believe that that was acting? Seemingly oblivious, the man continues on. “That's exactly what I want from you, okay? Just keep doing that, don't worry about anything but getting those feelings across. You want him, you love him, and you are overwhelmed by the knowledge that it's the same for him, yes?” 

_Great_ , Rush thinks. “Yes,” he says. 

“Okay, good,” Emmerson beams at him. “You good, Everett?” 

Young just nods and leans back against the headboard. His nipples tight and pointy and an unfairly delicate color of pink. Rush tears his eyes away and lies down on his back again. 

He can do this. He has to do this. The sooner he does, the sooner he can get out of here. 

Amelia steps in soundlessly and quickly resets his makeup, the powder brush tickling over his skin in practiced strokes. Then he's on his back again, Emmerson yells, “Action!” and Young is rolling on top of him. 

Young has kissed his neck so many times today one would think Rush'd be used to it by now. One would be wrong. It's like every time Young does this it gets _better_ , as if Young is figuring out where all his hot spots are, what he likes. The thought makes Rush's fingers clench roughly in the flesh of Young's shoulders. It's getting harder to keep everything in. 

Young nudges his legs open wider, another thing he hadn't done before, and then takes Rush's breath and ability to think away by smiling down at him and _kissing_ him, right on the mouth. And it's not one of those tepid movie kisses either, he dips in full force, tongue and lips and even some teeth. Rush realizes he's moaning into the kiss, moving along with Young's deepening thrusts against his pelvis, and Christ, they're touching. Their pricks are pressed against each other, and the cock socks aren't nearly enough to keep Rush from feeling that Young is reacting, too. 

He makes a rough noise into the kiss, he doesn't have to act there, and pulls back a little, hands cradling Young's face. By now they've gone so far off-script that he might as well go for broke.

“Peter,” he whispers breathily, wrapping his legs around Young's hips, and then Young is kissing him again. 

Rush almost forgets where he is, his tongue up against Young's, their groins rubbing together. He startles at the snap of the clapper, the sharp “Cut!” from Emmerson. 

“That's it!” Emmerson claps his hands. “That's the one! We've got it!” 

Rush doesn't think he's imagining that it's taking Young longer to roll off of him than after any of the other takes. He's also fairly sure Young's prick is feeling just as plump and sensitive as his own. Rush pulls the sheets up to cover himself and his half-hard cock as Young slings his legs over the other side of the bed and shrugs into a robe one of the assistants is holding up for him. 

“That was fantastic, Everett!” Emmerson gushes. “That kiss, I didn't think it would work in this scene, but it was perfect!” he turns to Rush. “And you, saying Peter's name like that – it was like you were reading my mind. Great work, both of you!” 

Then he turns away, going over the replay with one of the producers, and suddenly it feels as if he and Young are completely alone in here. Even though there are over a dozen people milling around on the set, all Rush can feel is Young's heavy gaze on him. It's ridiculously difficult to make himself look Young in the eye, but it's equally impossible not to let his gaze get pulled to him. 

Young looks... contemplative, perhaps? Even after months of working with the man Rush still hasn't quite gotten a grip on what his expressions signify. 

“That was,” Young begins, and for the first time since Rush has met him he seems a little insecure. “...some improv.” 

Rush isn't entirely sure what Young means by that. It sounds almost like a question. “Yeah,” he agrees stupidly. “Some improv.” 

Young steps around the bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, near Rush's upper legs. He stares at his hands in his lap, studying his nails and seemingly racking up his courage. Then he looks up, catching Rush's gaze and leaning in closer. The smirk he sends Rush is probably supposed to look cocksure, but it seems more hesitant than anything. 

“I was thinking of doing some more improv in my trailer,” he says, quiet enough for no one to overhear. Rush feels his eyes go wide in astonishment, because this means... this means it's not just him. There must be something on his face, then, because as if he can read Rush's thoughts, Young's smirk widens into a genuine smile. “So... Wanna join me?”

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a prompt you'd like to see turned into a drabble, let me know and I'll see what I can do.


End file.
